


A Bro's Guide to Surviving an Assassination Attempt

by TuppingLiberty



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Bonding, But the First Chapter has Violence, Coming In Pants, Explicit Consent, FBI Agent Derek, First Kiss, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Mates, More Smut that Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rated E for Smut and Violence, Rimming, Scott is a Good Alpha, Scott is a Good Friend, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Stiles Takes Meds, Versatile Derek Hale, Versatile Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, Youtuber Stiles, minor hurt/comfort, or does he?, stiles has a stalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-07-20 02:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19984855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: In college, Stiles stumbled into a gig on YouTube as an activist for supernatural rights. Now in his early twenties, he loves the work he does - that is, until someone wants to kill him for it.Enter Agent Derek Hale and his team, who are trying to catch a killer, and keep Stiles safe.Will be trying to update once a week. Tags will change. See chapter notes for relevant tags for each chapter. Please note that the E rating is for violence as well as smut, although there will be plenty of smut.





	1. A Bro's Guide to Awkward Meet Cutes

**Author's Note:**

> In the first chapter, there is an animal mutilation (squirrel). It's not described very graphically, but some readers may find it disturbing. Stiles also briefly thinks about a comment where someone told him to kill himself, again, without detail and in passing.

“And always remember,” Stiles says with a wink to the camera, “Dude, just, like, don't be an asshole.”

Stiles taps his bottom lip thoughtfully as he watches the last piece of his latest video, then saves the edited file with a quick flick of his fingers. It'll go up tomorrow, one of his weekly Q and As about supernatural stuff. 

The final line comes from the way he'd signed off his very first video, when he may have been slightly less than sober and he'd gotten into YouTube to rant about some naturalist assholes that had been using the Free Speech Zone on campus that day. Rather, because he’d spent long months in high school obsessed with learning everything he could about supernaturals - thanks, ADHD - he had gone on a detailed yet succinct, informative yet entertaining...rant. 

He hadn't meant to become one of the voices of the supernatural equal rights movement, he'd just been wanting to rant, and defend his best friend Scott, a Were. Really, it had all stemmed from his inability to let someone in the world be wrong when he’s there, willing to correct them. It hadn’t been the first time he’d done it and Scott’s told him it’s unlikely to be the last. 

The final shot of that first video ends with him tapping his lip, almost like he is now, a nervous habit, as he says tiredly, his rant having sputtered out, “Dude, just, like, don't be an asshole.” 

He didn't even edit it before he posted it and passed the fuck out. 

Honestly, the video is terrible, and he wouldn't be the first one to say so. 

But, two days later, someone shared it on Twitter, and then someone else mentioned it on a podcast, and then all of a sudden it had gone viral. 

A fact which Stiles finally figured out come Monday morning in his bio lecture when these two girls in front of him kept looking at their phones, then looking back at him and giggling. 

He’d pulled his own phone out of his pocket and clicked through the YouTube app until he found his video. Trending. With at least a million views. 

He'd met Scott for a quick lunch - they had shared one of those triangle sandwiches from the corner store while sitting under a tree on campus - and shown him the video, and then the emails asking for TV interviews. 

“I'm not, I mean. I'm not...I don't know why people are so interested. I'm not even a soop.” 

“You're nonthreatening, and endearing. Even when you're telling me some crazy story about all this complicated research you've done, you keep it relatable.” Scott had pointed out. “Like...a bro’s guide to supernaturals or something.” 

The name had stuck, Stiles thinks with a smile, affixing his “Bro’s Guide” logo over a screen cap for the title thumbnail.

He doesn’t only talk supernaturals, but the bulk of his videos tackle the same subject as his first one: educating people so that supernaturals seem less scary and mysterious. After all, fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, and hate leads to suffering - or you standing on a college campus holding a sign, spouting slurs at someone’s Were best friend. 

Listen, there are things you can criticize Yoda for, but that whole line of reasoning isn’t one of them, as far as Stiles is concerned. He’s certainly suffered through his own fair share of hate - and that’s with the privilege of not being a supernatural. He remembers, very specifically, the first time one of his viewers told him to go kill himself. He still wishes he’d been stronger that day, but he’d ended up spending the night with Scott, Alli, and Isaac, though only Scott had known the reason for the impromptu sleepover. 

Now, that type of thing - “dog fucker,” death threats, messages wishing him harm, they all sort of wash over him with a click of the block button. The good far outweighs the bad, anyway. The teenagers - soops and norms - that have come up to him and told him their stories, the people he’s met at VidCon, the wonderful fan letters and messages he gets, the invitations to speak at conferences concerning supernatural rights legislation, that one time he’d actually had a conference call with the _president_ about it - it makes all the ugly worth it. 

He pulls off his headphones, then stands and stretches, groaning as his long and lanky body creaks and pops. “C’mon, old man,” he tells his body, rubbing a hand over the strip of skin his stretching had exposed at his stomach and yawning. 

Listen, he’s been pretty responsible with the money he’s gotten the last couple of years, okay? He still drives Roscoe. As per his agreement with his dad, he finished college - and paid for it. And then, just to piss his dad off a little, in the best way possible, he paid off the mortgage on his childhood home. 

But by far the most indulgent thing he’s done is rent an apartment with two bedrooms but without a roommate - living alone for the first time in his life. The first night had been weird as fuck, but it’s way nicer to not have to use his actual bedroom to film videos. It makes him feel rather adult to have a home office space. 

So it’s this space that he’s walking out of, and he misses _it_ at first because he has his phone in his hand, thumbing through notifications he missed while editing. Scott, Isaac, and Alli did one of those cute “hands making heart shapes over the pregnant belly” photo shoots and it’s honestly adorable when _his_ friends do it, even if he finds it painful in pretty much all other situations. He can’t help being proud of the triad, and double-taps the picture set to love it. 

He notices the smell first. He’d gotten in enough supernatural scrapes - and regular scrapes, to be honest - with Scott as kids and teens to recognize that coppery tang of fresh blood. His brows draw together as he frowns, lifting his nose in an imitation of a Were from habit of seeing the move over and over. Since he doesn’t actually have supernatural smell, he starts searching, first around the living/kitchen area - nothing there - and then pushing open his bedroom door, his heart pounding. The smell of blood - death - is much stronger here.

His fingers grip his phone tight as he finds the source of the smell on his bed, a dead- a dead animal of some kind, he can’t even really tell, _oh god what happened here-_ Bile rises in his throat, he can feel it burning, even as his mind starts racing a mile a minute trying to justify just what the hell is going on.

_Maybe I left my window open and it crawled in there to die, animals like to hide when they die, right? But then why is there so much blood- because maybe it got attacked and then crawled in here. Right. Probably just got attacked and then crawled into his bedroom to die a sad, lonely death. Not that it’s a metaphor, Stiles…_

Grabbing a dirty towel from his hamper, he moves over to the bed, intending to inspect the animal, to see if his theory is right. It’s a squirrel, he can tell, now, one of the grays that likes to hang out on his fire escape. Automatically, Stiles looks over to the window, but it’s shut and locked like always - he’d been raised by a sheriff, of course he’d take precautions. Gulping, he looks back down at the dead, bloody body, spilled over his bedspread, finally realizing there’s something...a paper? Under the squirrel’s body. 

Using the towel, he pulls the paper out, already thinking about how he’s definitely going to just throw the entire bedding away. And maybe call Lydia to see if she wouldn’t mind a house guest tonight. Automatically, even while he’s thinking of that, he opens the folded, bloody paper.

_For Stiles_

And then one of those hearts with the arrow drawn through it. 

Shaking, Stiles drops the paper back on the bed, and slowly backs out of his room. His body is warring with his mind - he’s barely keeping the bile down now, and all he’d love to do is take the wastebasket and throw up, but his mind - the part of his mind that is the sheriff’s son - his mind is telling him this is now all a crime scene. 

Because he’s been alone in the apartment since he got back from the store earlier today. And he’d been in his bedroom right after that, dropping some books by his bed, where he liked to do most of his research for future videos. 

All of a sudden, Stiles wishes he’d grabbed the baseball bat he keeps beside his bed.

He does a 360 spin to check for the home invader - he’s seen this horror movie _way_ too many times - and walks swiftly into the kitchen area, grabbing a knife instead, putting his back to the wall, and holding it up in a ready position even as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. 

He starts a deep breathing exercise, trying to will the panic attack into ebbing - his anxiety meds are in the bathroom, and for all he knows, the fucker who did this is hiding in there right now. His grip on the knife tightens, his knuckles going white, as he dials 911. 

By the time the police arrive, he’s fairly sure he’s alone in the apartment, though he’s wishing for the thousandth time that he had the ability to pinpoint heartbeats. He grabs a plastic sandwich bag from a kitchen drawer and uses it to let the police in, trying to maintain the integrity of any fingerprints they might be able to collect off of the doorknob. 

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” the officer asks after taking his statement. Her partner’s in the bedroom, taking pictures. Stiles still feels like he might throw up, but he does feel marginally safer, out here in the hallway, despite looky-loo neighbors. 

It’s past two am, he doesn’t want to bother Lydia. She’s defending her masters thesis in a matter of weeks. Scott, Isaac, and Allison live a day’s drive away in Beacon Hills. Danny- Danny’s a possibility, but he’d tell Jackson, who’d wake up Lydia anyway, so it doesn’t really matter. 

“Listen, kid, you don’t want to be alone,” the officer pushes, even though she can’t be much older than his 23. 

“Yeah, I can- yeah. Just a second.” 

Stiles feels so, _so_ tired in the aftermath of the panic attack that honestly still hasn’t ebbed completely away. He closes his eyes, feeling the tiredness manifest in tears prickling at them. 

“Stiles?” comes Lydia’s confused voice. 

“Hey, everything’s all right,” he reassures, a habit he’d picked up as the sheriff’s kid. No one wanted to get a call at two am, but at least he could start off with that. “There was- um, my apartment was broken into, and I need a place to stay for tonight. Can I come over?” 

Lydia, bless her, doesn’t pepper him with questions, just gives her assent with a, “I’ll make up the couch for you.” 

“Thanks, Lyds.” 

He turns back to the officer. “Can I take anything from inside the apartment?” He doesn’t especially want to touch anything in his bedroom, but his backpack, with his laptop and other necessities, was in the home office with him the whole time. It can’t have been part of ...that. 

She nods, heading back inside with him and watching him carefully. His hoodie’s in here too, and he grabs that. No underwear, but he can get some tomorrow. Maybe Lydia has a pair of Jackson’s lying around. The thought makes him smile, partially, at the absurdity. He has extra pills in his backpack, and that'll have to do. There's no way he's taking the ones from the bathroom. Who knows what the invader could have done with them.

Lydia looks amazing as always, even all sleep mussed and wrapped in a robe. She gestures him in, then pulls him in for a hug that he has to duck down for. He takes a second, breathing in her comforting scent, letting her comfort him. His heart finally feels like it isn’t galloping in his chest. 

“No, uh, sense of my imminent demise, right?” Stiles offers as a joke, laughing weakly even as she releases him. Sometimes banshee powers could be extremely helpful.

Her lips quirk up. “Not this time.” 

Something inside him releases and relaxes, and he nods, thanking her silently for the reassurance. 

“You reek of it, though. A home invasion?” 

After making sure she’s locked the door, he sets his stuff down by the couch that’s been made up with sheets and pillows. He sinks into it, letting his eyes close, and tells her the whole story.

At her silence, he peeks one eye open. She’s frowning at him, hard. “You need to call Scott.” 

“It’s two- well, three am in the morning. They’re expecting a kid. I’m not going to wake him. _Or_ my dad, before you get any ideas.” 

“Mhmm,” she says on a hum. She stands, ruffling her fingers through his hair. “Get some sleep.” 

He shuts his eyes again, and somehow manages to do exactly that. 

He wakes to the morning sun spilling into the living room, and his phone ringing, a selfie of he and Scott at their college graduation popping up. He manages to hit the button to answer the call, then mumbles tiredly into the phone, “I was going to call.” 

“That’s weird, because Lydia didn’t think so. She said something about your stubborn ass not wanting to bother anyone.” 

“Sounds like Lyds all right,” Stiles grumbles, sticking his head - phone still glued to his ear - under the pillow to block out the light. 

“Stiles.” Scott’s voice is soft, but urgent. It’s just _this_ side of an Alpha voice. “You can’t treat this like it’s no big deal.” 

“I’m not treating this like it’s no big deal. It happened less than-” he pulls the phone off to check the time, “-fuck, less than 5 hours ago, okay? Give a dude a chance to process. I called the police. They’re taking care of everything.” 

“Stalkers aren’t-”

“We don’t know that it’s a stalker,” Stiles points out. 

“We don’t know it’s not. It’s not like every comment on your social media is all sunshine and rainbows, either, Stiles.” 

“Okay, you can’t just turn my argument around on me-”

“I called my dad.” Scott’s voice is unreadable. The silence that drops between them means all Stiles can make out is the buzzing of the phone line. 

“You hate your dad,” he says eventually, slowly. Painfully.

“Yeah, well…” Scott blows out a breath. “I love you, so-”

“Being a pre-father has made you soft.” After a beat, Stiles whispers, “I love you too, dude.” 

He hears Scott’s little half-chuckle, half-breath over the line, and something in him settles. Damned if he doesn’t miss his Alpha, even though he doesn’t feel the compulsion a Were would to be near him. “So I called my dad,” Scott says, more easily this time, “and he’s sending someone. A group of someones, maybe, I didn’t quite understand, from the LA office.” 

“I- just for a stupid threat against a YouTuber?” Resigning himself to the fact that he isn’t going to be getting any more sleep, he pushes himself up to a seated position, spies Jackson eating cereal at the kitchen counter, and gives him a bro nod.

“I can be persuasive when I want to be,” Scott replies, the smile evident in his voice. “They’re from the Were division. I told McCall I wouldn’t settle for anything less than Were protection on you until this psycho is caught.” 

“Aww, come on, man, I don’t need a babysitter.” 

“And I don’t need a dead brother.” 

“Lydia says I’m clear-”

“Don’t make me use the voice.” 

“Oh my god-”

“His name’s Agent Hale. Derek Hale. Make sure to check his ID. I gave him Lydia’s address.”

“Scotty-” Stiles protests.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m pulling _that_ card. Please, Stiles, for the sake of your unborn godchild, please keep yourself safe.”

“Low blow,” Stiles mumbles. 

“Yeah, well. You can kick my ass for it when you come visit us, all safe and sound and stalker-free.”

“You know I can’t get away until after VidCon.”

“I know, that’s why I’m not on a flight down to LA right now to personally haul you back up here, though I did have to stop Allison from grabbing her bow and driving down herself.”

Stiles’ heart swells unexpectedly, so of course he deflects. “Hey, don’t you have to be at the clinic?”

“Already there, dude, but yeah, there’s a cat with a UTI that I need to help.” 

“Sounds energizing. Please, don’t let me keep you.” 

“Okay, well, keep me informed, okay? I’m going to be watching your iPhone on the Find My Friend app like a hawk.”

“Yes, Alpha,” Stiles replies, all tease in his voice as he hangs up. 

He’s exchanging more bro-nods with Jackson, who hates mornings, while rummaging himself up some breakfast, when there’s a strong knock on the door. 

Surprisingly, Jackson - still shirtless, just wearing sleep pants from bed - moves around Stiles faster than Stiles can react, and heads to the door, peering through the peephole. “Who is it?”

When Stiles approaches, Jackson just holds him back, hand on his chest like he’s a child.

“Agent Hale,” replies a deep voice from the other side. 

“Let me see your ID.” 

Stiles has no idea where this over-protective Jackson came from, but he’s fairly sure Lydia has something to do with it. 

“Looks legit,” he whispers back to Stiles after a moment. “Are you expecting the FBI?”

Mouth a little slack, Stiles nods. 

Jackson opens the door, and Stiles’ mouth goes dry. 

It’s not one, but three agents standing on Lydia’s stoop, all dressed in the stereotypical suits like he’s seen on TV. The first agent, Hale, he presumes, cuts an imposing figure without being a huge man, with a jaw so chiseled it could probably cut someone, and bright, passionate green eyes. He’s flanked by a man and a woman, each intimidating in their own right, but Stiles can’t seem to take his eyes off of Hale. 

Hale, who walks right into Lydia’s front room like he owns the place. “That was good, but it could be better. You didn’t ask for all of our IDs. These two could have been using me to force their way into the house. We’ll drill it.” He pulls a small notebook from his pocket and makes a note, then continues walking through the house, leaving the other two with Stiles.

The woman comes forward. “This is Agent Boyd,” and the other man nods silently at him, “and I'm Agent Reyes. You can call me Erica," she says with a smile, holding out her hand for Stiles and Jackson to shake. “I’ve watched your videos. They’re actually not totally awful, despite being made by a normie.” 

Considering it’s far from the worst thing anyone’s ever said to him, Stiles finds himself smiling back, even as Agents Hale and Boyd walk around the small house, Hale making notes in his notebook the whole time. “Thanks. I’m glad I do an okay job. That’s all I want. Um- listen, I don’t...I mean, the FBI? Look, I get that my friend is worried about me, but is this all really necessary?”

“Did you know Autumn Brown?” Erica asks, though Stiles can feel Hale's intense eyes pointed in his direction.

“I mean yeah, everyone in the community knew Autumn. Her passing was awful.” She’d been another YouTuber, and it had hit close to home, the news that she’d died in a car accident, of all things.

“And her work for the supernatural community cut tragically short,” Erica adds succinctly.

“Well, yeah, but I mean, her death was a terrible accident-” Stiles pauses. “It _was_ an accident, right?”

“Have you ever heard the name Kate Argent?”

“Like, _the_ Argents?” At Erica's nod, Stiles shakes his head. “Not a Kate, no.” 

“Before her death, Autumn found a mutilated animal on her doorstep. She called in the police for a standard stalking case.”

Stiles’ heart is thudding heavily against his rib cage. “That’s- that’s what this is, right? Just some internet crazy who-”

“That’s what Kate Argent wants her targets to believe.”

“Targets?” Stiles asks faintly. “The Argents - they’re some of the strongest anti-supernatural activists in the country, but they’ve never been tied to- to-”

“Murder? They’re basically domestic terrorists, targeting and assassinating people who are important to the supernatural rights community.” Erica meets his eyes. “We have strong reason to believe you’re their next target. You definitely fit the profile.”

“I- assassinate?” Stiles knees give out; thankfully, he’s next to the couch. He pulls up the pillow he’d been hiding under earlier and hugs it to his chest.

Erica sits beside him. Their thighs don’t touch, but Stiles still feels comfort from the proximity. “I’m not going to let that happen, Stiles.” She nods at Boyd. “We're here to catch Kate. Boyd and I will be heading that part of the operation.”

Stiles gives a surprised look to Hale, whose brows are drawn together, his whole face making him almost look constipated. He'd seemed like the leader of this little trio, so he's surprised Agent Hale isn't going to be part of the investigation. "Good, that sounds like a good plan. Catch Kate. Got it. Well, anything I can do to help, I mean, why would you need my help, I'm just a dumb barely-out-of-college kid and you're like, FBI agents, and it's not like I could do anything helpful, so I guess I'll just hang out here until VidCon-"

"Shut up, Stiles." It's the first thing Agent Hale has said since he entered and reprimanded Jackson for his lack of constant vigilance.

It actually shocks Stiles into silence which, any of his friends could tell you, is a rare thing indeed. It also lasts less than ten seconds. "Cool. Cool. Cool cool cool. _Oh my god."_ Numbly, Stiles fumbles for his backpack and finds his meds for his morning doses - ADHD and anxiety, and he could really use the anti-anxiety meds right now. He swallows them dry, the task giving him something to focus on besides freaking out. Still, all he manages is another, “Oh my god.”

"We're going to put you under agent protection, Stiles. It'll be okay. We need - we need Kate to think nothing has gone wrong. We need her to keep pursuing you," Erica murmurs. "That's our best chance to catch her."

"Like...like bait?"

"Absolutely not. Just...we need you to keep living your life like normal, except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'll be shadowing your every move." Agent Hale's voice sounds final. He obviously has the same Alpha skill that Scott does being domineering without using his Alpha voice.

"Oh, okay." Stiles pushes back up to his feet. “I’m going to go, um, try not to throw up in the bathroom, okay?”

True to his word, Agent Hale follows him.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says under his breath again as he leads the agent back Lydia's guest bathroom.


	2. A Bro's Guide to Flexing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot, as it were, progresses. 
> 
> I really don't think this is going to be a slow burn. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guess what! I'm basically, so-close-I-can-taste-it, almost done with grad school! Which means I get to write fic more. :D :D :D :D
> 
> And also read pleasure books, and do all sorts of stuff. It's a miracle!
> 
> So, I should be updating on most Sundays unless I'm out of town, but I may (*may*) be able to update more!

Stiles doesn’t throw up. Derek knows because he’s stationed himself at the door to the bathroom, and he’ll take safety over privacy any day. Stiles  _ does _ do a lot of talking to himself, and it threads in and out of making sense enough for Derek to know he’s trying to talk himself down as he paces the small confines of the room. 

He’d like to be doing some pacing of his own. The assignment is making his wolf itchy. He should be on the  _ hunt, _ not protecting prey from the hunter. He should be sinking his claws into Kate’s neck for what she did to his family, not looking after a skinny, pale nerd from the internet. 

_ Cora probably would recognize him, _ he thinks, and he almost pulls out his phone to text and ask, but her phone’s not secure. He trusts his sister implicitly, would trust her with his life if need be, but she’s got a girlfriend and two roommates and a habit of leaving her phone everywhere. 

The water runs in the bathroom, and the talking has stopped. A few moments later, Stiles pulls open the bathroom door, his face half-covered in his shirt, which he’s using to wipe moisture away. It leaves the long line of his torso partially exposed, which Derek is  _ definitely not noticing. _

_ Anger. Anger is easier to deal with. Get back to that. _

Maybe- maybe if Kate's coming after Stiles, he can use that to his advantage, set Stiles out as bai-

His train of thought is interrupted by Stiles running straight into him. Automatically, he reaches out to steady the young man. For his own part, Stiles looks at Derek in surprise, like he didn’t think Derek was going to be there. 

“Where you go, I go.”

Maybe his voice comes out harshly. Derek doesn’t really quite care at the moment. 

“Yeah, I’ve seen that movie. Don’t worry, I’m not going to need you to take me out of a group of fans in a bridal carry. I hope you’re ready to bored out of your mind by my life.” Stiles pushes past him, back to the living area. 

He seems a little steadier now, a little more grounded. His skin has regained some of its color, and his gait is confident, for the most part. Derek has to hand it to him. It’s not everyday you find out you’re the next target for an assassination. If he hadn’t just heard Stiles having a tiny meltdown in the bathroom, he’d think him totally unaffected. 

When they get back to the living area, another woman has joined the young man that opened the door. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she questions Boyd about what’s going on. She’s not actually getting very far, considering how Boyd is. Erica looks supremely amused.  


Stiles reaches for his backpack, then leans in to kiss the woman on the cheek. “Thanks, Lydia. I’m not sure if I’ll be back tonight or not.”

Erica clears her throat. “The locals contacted us while you were gone. Your place is clear, though, uh, I don’t think cleaned up, yet.”

Stiles gives a hesitant nod, straightening his shoulders. “Well, looks like clean up just got added to the to-do list for today. I guess that settles it,” he says, turning back to Lydia. “I’ll probably just hang at the apartment tonight.”

Lydia frowns at Stiles, then at the rest of the room. If anything, her arms cross more tightly over her chest. “That’s- you have to know that’s a horrible idea.” 

“Hey, some of us aren’t at your level of genius.” Stiles pauses in front of the other young man, the topless one, and hesitates, then, seemingly reluctantly, goes in for one of those bro, tap on the back hugs. “Thanks for everything, Jackson.” 

He shoulders his backpack more firmly on his back and turns to Derek. “Hey, isn’t she going to like, recognize you? Or at least get suspicious that I have a werewolf bodyguard all of a sudden?”

Derek turns to Erica. “Where’s the stuff?”

“Backseat. We’ll walk you guys out. Boyd?”

Boyd exits first, and Derek hears his all-clear through his ear piece. Erica acknowledges it, and they flank Stiles out the door. For his part, Stiles looks one last time over his shoulder and waves at his friends. 

At the car, Stiles pauses, looking surprised. Derek has to press him into going forward again. “What?”

Stiles ducks into the backseat of the non-descript silver Ford Taurus that’s at least a decade old. “I don’t know, I was expecting the Men in Black to have a black SUV, to boot.” 

“Yeah, well, speaking of that…” Derek grabs the messenger bag from the seat beside Stiles and heads back toward the door. “Time to look a little less conspicuous. Give me five.” 

“You got it, boss,” Boyd acknowledges from his ready position outside the car, scanning the neighborhood. Erica’s already behind the wheel, ready to get out fast if need be. 

Lydia lets him in this time, eyeing him up and down. “You work for Agent McCall?”

“With, not for. Can I use your bathroom?” 

“Agent McCall’s a major asshole.”

“Yes.”

Lydia’s eyebrows furrow. In fact, he’s fairly sure Lydia could match his eyebrow conversational game beat for beat even though hers are perfectly manicured. She’s silent, though, so he prompts, “Bathroom?” again. 

She gives him a short nod, tilting her head as if she’s listening for something. She’s definitely not a wolf, though the guy - Jackson - is some type of Were. 

It takes Derek two minutes to quick change into his gear. By the time he’s out of the bathroom again, Lydia has a mug of tea, and she meets him by the front door. “Listen, I know this isn’t entirely the right time for the shovel talk, but, Agent Hale, something feels off about you, and I can’t quite figure it out. If a single hair on Stiles’ head is displaced because you let harm come to him, I promise, you will  _ hear _ about it.” 

Derek stiffens, pulling the strap of his messenger bag so its pressing, just a little, into the skin of his neck. “I’ll protect him,” he says through gritted teeth, both offended at her accusation and left wondering just what it is she senses about him. 

Stiles is startled by the car door - he’d been checking through his social media and putting out any fires that needed to be taken care of. He glances over at Agent Hale as he slips in beside him and does an immediate double take. 

Who knew a change of clothes could make such a difference? Gone is the black suit. Instead, Hale’s wearing tight dark wash jeans that look like they’ve been painted over his thighs and ass - not that Stiles is checking him out. He’s got on a light grey henley and a nondescript green jacket that brings out his eyes, and he’s wearing glasses, which do absolutely nothing to diminish the sharp, attractive lines of his face. The look is completed by the simple brown leather messenger bag he has slung across his body, emphasizing his shoulders, his pecs, his everything, Stiles thinks. 

_ Dude,  _ so _ not the time. _

“What’s, uh. What’s this?” Stiles manages as Boyd slides into the front passenger seat and Erica starts to drive them away. 

Agent Hale holds out his hand and Stiles takes it automatically. “Hi, I’m Derek, your new assistant.” 

“I- wha-” Stiles sputters. “Dude, no one’s going to take this as a disguise. What are you, Clark Kent? You think you can just put on glasses and no one will recognize you as some badass werewolf?”

Derek smirks, making his face all the more attractive. “We’ll see. People see what they want to see, especially when it comes to assistants.” 

“There’re other options,” Erica calls from the front seat, “But things like “new boyfriend” tend to make way more of a splash.” 

Stiles inhales sharply, then chokes on his own spit, coughing until Derek presses a water bottle into his hands, uncapped. He guzzles it down gratefully. “Thanks,” he finally manages when he can breathe again. 

“See? I’m a great assistant.” 

It’s not the words, but the way he says them, that makes Stiles laugh a little manically. Derek had said it in the most monotonous voice Stiles has ever heard. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there was an extremely dry wit lurking inside the Were.

“Yeah. Great,” Stiles replies with his own dry tone. 

“As your assistant, I’ll need you to share your calendar with me.” Derek pulls out his phone, then looks up at Stiles expectantly, the full force of that  _ face _ hitting Stiles once again. 

_ Jesus. I wonder if he’s used to seeing himself in the mirror.  _

“Right.” Stiles fumbles for his phone, and they deal with all the electronic shit for a few minutes. Now Derek is possibly the hottest guy Stiles has contact info for, which is just supremely unfair. 

“Hey, by the way,” Derek says casually, as they pull up outside Stiles’ apartment building. “What’s your friend Lydia? Not a Were.” 

Stiles gives Derek a contemplative look, but Lydia had come out long ago, so it’s not like he’s keeping a secret here. “Banshee.” 

“Ah. So when she said I’d ‘hear’ from her…”

“Yeah, you might want to wear some noise cancelling headphones if you get on her bad side.” Stiles blinks. “Wait, did she say that?”

Derek waves it off. “Wait here. From now on, you follow my instructions, got it? I’m clearing any space before you get into it.” He slips out of the car, along with Boyd. 

It’s only a matter of minutes before Derek’s opening Stiles’ door and exchanging a nod with Boyd. 

“Give me your car keys and parking info, Stiles. We’ll have someone from the Bureau run your car back over here by this afternoon.” It’s the most Boyd has said, Stiles is fairly sure, out loud, ever. 

Stiles digs his key ring out of his pocket and hands over the key for Roscoe before adjusting the straps of his backpack. “I’ll have Derek text you the info.” He turns to Derek. “Okay, ready to assist, assistant?”

He’s fairly sure he hears Boyd snort as he turns away from the car, and he calls that a win. 

He manages to ride that false bravado all the way up until he’s put his key in the building door and he realizes his hand is shaking. He hesitates, his heart pounding, until Derek’s hand closes over his. 

“Have you considered moving to a place with a concierge?” Derek asks gruffly even as he smoothly turns the key and pulls open the door. He looks at it skeptically as he holds it open for Stiles, testing its sturdiness. As he does, another person, their key at the ready, walks through it, and Derek makes eyes at Stiles over their head. They hesitate in the mail area until they're gone. “See what I mean? Anyone can walk in.”

“Think that’s how she got in last night?” Stiles whispers, feeling a little faint again before shutting it down and squaring his shoulders to head to the elevator. 

“Could be that, could be she has a master. The police’ll find the security footage for the building was disrupted the whole time she was here.” 

“Great.” Stiles punches the button for his floor, eyeing the not-at-all discreet video camera in the corner of the elevator car. 

For some reason, Derek’s brusque attitude gives Stiles the courage he needs to unlock the door to his apartment without hesitation. “Wait here,” Derek mutters, leaving Stiles in the hallway before sweeping inside, presumably to check that every room is clear. He reappears less than a minute later, nodding Stiles inside. 

The apartment smells all wrong, all  _ other, _ and Stiles winces, not wanting to contemplate cleanup.

“The calendar says you have a couple of meetings this afternoon?”

Stiles drops his backpack down on his couch, wondering if  _ she _ touched it last night.  _ God, fuck, shit- _ “Ye-yeah, I have- I mean, there’s this charity thing coming up that I’m a part of. I have some meetings for that, and also a possible sponsorship for the YouTube channel. I need to grab something more...appropriate for that,” Stiles replies, running a hand over his rumpled shirt. 

He hesitates before going to the bedroom, though, for the barest of seconds, before clenching his hands tight - he can feel his fingernails digging into his palms, he’ll probably have marks later - and pushing through the door. 

The poor animal is gone, and the sheets, and there’s a lot of CSI detritus everywhere. It’s not great. But it’s also not as bad as Stiles had been thinking. 

Still, the thought of sleeping in that bed makes his skin crawl. 

“That a problem for future Stiles,” he mutters under his breath, and he continues muttering as he goes to the closet and tries to find a clean, decently professional outfit for the afternoon. 

“Do you have a cleaning service?” Derek calls, then pops his head into the bedroom to hear the answer.

Stiles scowls. “What? No.” 

Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles’ defensive response. “So then, can I call one for you? They could come in while we’re at your meetings and scrub the place down.” 

Some of the anxiety whirling inside Stiles relaxes. “Wow, look at you. It’s almost like you’re in the wrong line of work.” 

Derek’s lips quirk at Stiles’ sarcasm. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, um, let me get you my credit card. You’re not going to like, buy yourself a Bowflex with this thing, right?” Stiles pulls out his wallet and hands his card over to Derek.

Now Derek gives him a particularly wolfy smile. “No promises.” 

If Stiles isn’t mistaken, the wolf flexes ever so slightly in his jacket as he turns away to make the call. Back in his closet, Stiles lets himself laugh at the posturing. 

It feels... _incredible_ to laugh. 

He finds what he wants, and crosses back to the door, leaning against the jam and watching Derek, his face intent on his phone call. There’s some type of warmth blossoming in Stiles’ chest, and it takes him a second to pinpoint it. 

_ It’s nice not to be alone. Everything sucks right now, and it’s really fucking nice not to be alone. _

He can’t stop his lips from tipping up as he heads to the bathroom to shower. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG YOU GUYS I'M BASICALLY DONE WITH GRAD SCHOOL


	3. A Bro's Guide to Falling Asleep Anywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek accompanies Stiles on his meetings, and they have some interesting conversations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story keeps taking me weird and interesting unexpected places. Hopefully you think so, too. <3
> 
> EDIT: I totally forgot to mention in this or the last chapter that Derek replaced the locks on Stiles' door.

As Derek predicted, when he hides himself behind glasses and a laptop for ‘taking notes,’ and makes himself just a smidge too self effacing for his Alpha wolf to remain comfortable - he’d been a Beta most of his life, after all, though, so he can pull it off - he practically blends into the background of Stiles’ meetings. 

He keeps half an ear open at them, the rest of the time trying not to bug Erica as she and Boyd search for Kate. It’s hard, letting his Betas take control; of course it’s hard. He doesn’t miss the way Erica’s short with him, the way a pup might nip lightly at the neck of their mother when she cleans them for too long. He gets it, he’s being overprotective. 

It’s just that Kate’s already taken one pack from him. Damned if she’ll take this fledgling one from him too. 

“Der, could you put that in my calendar?” 

Stiles’ voice cuts through his cloud of worry and anger, and he grunts, typing rapidly - not that he has any idea what was said, so he sure as hell hopes Stiles is just asking to make the act more feasible - and he doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ lips tip up for a second as he uses the pet name. 

Derek gets the impression that the moment he sees Stiles actually smile at something, it’ll be like looking at the sun. _He has the face for it, like Mom did._

He tries not to scowl too hard at the thought - he still has to appear meek, after all. Helpful. “I’ve got it, Mr. Stilinski.” 

The woman sitting across from them, some type of event organizer, looks surprised, and Stiles laughs and smiles at her. Derek can tell it’s all fake. “Don’t mind him, he’s new. Derek, we talked about this, _call me Stiles.”_ He finishes the last part through slightly gritted teeth, his eyes on Derek’s, imploring him. 

“Right, yes, of course, um, Stiles.” Derek ducks his head behind his laptop, rolling his eyes slightly once Stiles and the woman are looking away again. 

“What’s the deal with the name?” 

“Vanessa has known me for at least three months as we’ve been planning this fundraiser, she’d never believe that I would have my assistant call me by my last name.” 

He and Stiles are booking it to the next appointment, Derek driving, of course. He grips the steering wheel tightly. ‘Booking it’ isn’t exactly the operative phrase for LA. “No, what’s the deal with ‘Stiles’? Your file says your first name is Mie-” He’s shocked into silence when Stiles slaps his hand over Derek’s mouth. 

“Don’t- don’t call me that. Just call me Stiles. That’s my name. Dude, what decade do you live in that you can’t understand preferred names?”

Derek lifts a hand slowly to Stiles’ arm, using just a bit of wolf force - and a gentle reminder of his claws - to get the young man to release his mouth. Stiles’ eyes widen, and he pulls back his hand with a mumbled apology. “What decade do you live in that you touch people without their consent?” Derek asks lightly. 

“Touche.” Stiles’ face wavers between a frown and a smile. “The FBI has a file on me?” 

Derek can’t help it - he’s surprised into a laugh. “You are...a singular human being, Stiles.” 

“Is that your way of calling me weird?” 

“Absolutely.” 

This time, when Stiles laughs, it sounds real. Derek chances a glance over at him, and yup - smile just as brilliant as Derek suspected. _Typical._

“This is our exit,” Stiles says with a happy little sigh coming down from his laugh. 

“On it.” 

He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him, and he risks another check. Yep. No more smile, but definitely eyes. “What?”

“You didn’t answer my question before. The FBI has a file on me?” 

Derek grips the steering wheel again, trying to figure out whether to tell the truth or make up a convenient lie.

“It has something to do with Scott, doesn’t it? And Agent McCall? Is he keeping tabs on Scott or something?” 

“If he is, I’m not privy to that information,” Derek can answer honestly. 

“That’s a fancy phrase.” Stiles voice is dry, calculating. “I’m your average US citizen. The only record I have is parking tickets. Why would the FBI have a file on me?” 

Derek breathes in, breathes out through his nose. His wolf strangely likes Stiles’ scent. “You’re pack,” he finally murmurs. 

“Well, yeah, I mean-” 

“The FBI keeps track of packs. _Especially_ norms- I mean, mundanes that end up in packs. Because more often than not, those mundanes become...not mundane any more. The US government has a vested interest in keeping track of the supernatural population.” 

Stiles is - amazingly, Derek has come to learn - silent for a few moments. “Turn right up here,” he mumbles, then turns fully in his seat to face Derek, his hand reaching out to touch Derek’s arm, then stopping himself. “I fucking _knew_ it. I _knew_ it. God damn.” 

“It’s not unconstitutional. I didn’t even share classified information with you, a member of the press,” Derek points out.

Stiles laughs, but it’s a sarcastic sound this time. “Yeah, not while the Garner Act is still in place, not while the Supernatural Rights Amendment languishes in states that keep putting off even holding a ratification vote.” 

Derek growls softly in response. 

“How can you work for them?”

It surprises Derek that it hurts, just a little, the judgement in Stiles’ voice. He pulls over at the building for Stiles’ next meeting, but he doesn’t turn the car off, choosing to simply meet Stiles’ eyes as the air conditioner runs. “I, my pack, we-” He grits his teeth. Why does he even care about Stiles’ opinion of him? “We were chosen to...watch the watchmen, as it were.” 

Stiles’ face goes through a series of emotions before he finally lands on surprise. “Holy fucking shit!” he yells, the sound loud in the small car. “Holy fucking shit. Are you a _double agent?_ Holy shit, does telling me mean I’m going to die? Do you have to kill me now? Holy _fucking_ shit!” 

“I’m not a double agent.” Derek makes his voice louder than Stiles’ somehow. “Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.” 

_“I’m_ dramatic? You’re the broody sourwolf that just told me he’s a _double agent.”_

“I’m not a dou- I’m not _broody!”_

Stiles just arches a brow, his lips tipping up in that stupid smirk he’s always doing. “Dude, I’ve known you for less than twelve hours and you’ve spent approximately ten of those hours being all Mr. silent and broody and ‘I’d rather be anywhere than here, protecting this dumbass right now.’”

“What, you want an apology? Yeah, I’d rather be out hunting Kate down.” 

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “You can’t tell me it hasn’t occurred to you.” 

Derek throws up his hands in frustration. “What, Stiles? What hasn’t occurred to me?”

“Your best shot of catching Kate Argent is using me as bait.” 

Nothing penetrates the silence that follows. 

“Isn’t that why I got the Alpha all to myself and not one of your perfectly capable Betas? Boyd looks like he’d do a great job protecting me.” Stiles’ brow is still arched, his voice high, his cheeks flushed. “You’re a hunter. You know exactly how to lure Kate into your trap, but you need me to do it.” 

“I- what...what do you want me to do? Deny it? Yeah, I happen to think I’ll have a pretty good shot at taking Kate down if she comes for you.” 

“And if I happen to die…” 

“No, no, _fuck_ that. Just because...just because I have some _slight_ ulterior motives doesn’t mean I’m intentionally going to leave you vulnerable. Jesus Christ. She’s killed enough innocents.” 

Stiles seems to sag in his seat, then holds out his pinky. “If you see a bait and trap situation, promise to tell me about it beforehand?” 

Derek looks down at the pinky, and has an immediate flashback to Laura making him pinky swear he wouldn’t tell on her for taking Oreos in the middle of the night. He slides his pinky around Stiles’, then wraps his other hand around Stiles’ wrist. “Stiles, you have no reason to trust me, I get that, and you can’t listen to my heartbeat to see if I’m telling the truth, but I promise you, my first job, my paramount duty above all others, is to make sure you - and anyone else she wants to target - survive unharmed until she’s captured.” 

Stiles blinks at him, and slowly nods. “Okay.” 

Stiles’ heart doesn’t stutter on ‘okay,’ and Derek releases his hand. “What are we here to do?” 

“Work,” Stiles replies, blowing out his breath. “Gotta go earn some money.” 

“This looks pretty standard,” Stiles murmurs, his nose buried in contract paperwork as Derek continues to pretend to pay attention. “Why did we have to meet in person, not that I mind, of course?” 

The ad exec sitting on the other side of the table looks smarmy, in Derek’s opinion. He’s one of those Hollywood types, slicked-back hair and unnaturally white teeth and a perfect tan. “I try to meet all of our local brand ambassadors in person. We’ve been following your work for a while now, Mr. Stilinski, and you are exactly what we’re looking for to connect with the soop community.” 

Derek glances Stiles’ direction. He looks unperturbed by the implication, so maybe it’s normal for him. Supernaturals are his main topic on YouTube, Derek had found out from Cora earlier. 

“I will admit, though,” Ad Exec Man says with another fake smile, “I was very much hoping to meet your Alpha today.” 

Stiles, who had been about to take a sip of water, pauses, then sets the bottle back down. “Uh, my Alpha?” 

“It would be so good for our brand to be seen as one that supports alternative lifestyles. We’d be willing to offer more money if your Alpha were to appear in your video, and maybe if you two were engaging in some more _personal_ content. Nothing too sexy, of course, but sweet. Show everyone that your relationship is just as normal as it would be if you were dating another mundane, right? Isn’t that the goal?” 

Stiles chokes, even though he still hadn’t taken a drink. “I’m not- I’m not _dating_ my Alpha. I have no idea where you got that impression.” 

Ad Exec Man purses his lips. “You don’t have to be coy, we all know how packs _work._ We just want to show our support for that. Our brand tries to maintain a modern stance, after all.” 

“Oh my god, my dude, are you _serious?_ That’s- what- I can’t believe- have you even _seen_ any of my videos on pack dynamics? It’s not- it’s not like you’re making it out to be _at all.”_

“Yeah, we only have orgies when the full moon falls on a Tuesday, which is, statistically, like hardly ever,” Derek responds dryly, nudging Stiles’ knee with his in a silent show of support.

Ad Exec Man loses a little bit of his composure. “We don’t- we don’t care what you do behind closed doors, we just want to show your audience that hey, if that’s what you’re doing, it’s cool, and this brand is here for you.” 

Stiles blows a breath in and out discreetly. “And that’s very liberal of you. I just don’t have that type of relationship with my Alpha, I’m sorry. Being poly and being pack are two entirely separate things, neither of which are bad, but don’t necessarily go together- it’s this whole Venn diagram thing, dude. Not all Weres are poly, not all poly people are Weres, et cetera.” 

Ad Exec Man actually looks disappointed. 

“Listen, if you want to back out of this…” Stiles holds up the contract, like he’s about to rip it apart. 

“No, no. We’ll continue through what this contract stipulates.” 

Something tells Derek they’re not going to be offering Stiles another contract, and he knows Stiles gets that, too. 

“Okay. I’ll mention you guys in my video about poly-pack dynamics, then.” Stiles grins, using the black pen on the table to scribble his name on the final page. 

In the parking lot, Stiles checks his watch. “Hey, what can I make you for dinner?” 

“We could stop by and get something some place. I don’t want you using delivery services right now. Too easily infiltrated.” 

“Right, but it’s cheap, healthier, and more fun if I make you something. If you’re anything like Scott, you don’t mind a burger - as long as it’s still bloody.” 

Derek feels himself smile just a little. “Nailed it in one.” 

“Awesome. There’s a grocery store about a mile from my place, let’s head there.” 

Derek opens the door for Stiles after checking the backseat, then slips into the driver’s seat himself. “I take it you weren’t expecting that?” 

“What, the proposition? It would sadly not be the first time. Even the ones that are too polite to call me a dog fucker still think I’m fucking Scott. The ironic thing is, he _is_ in a poly-pack relationship, I’m just not part of it. And there’s nothing fucking wrong with that at all, any way around. I still fit in the pack exactly as I am.” 

“Even though you live hundreds of miles away?” Derek shakes his head. “I- I’ve had to survive without pack, but it’s really fucking hard. And that’s an understatement. My pack growing up, we- we all lived in the same house, shared meals, no one slept without a roommate of some type. And Erica and Boyd have their own thing going on, but none of us feel complete without the other two around.” 

“I’m not sure if you’re calling into question my loyalty to my pack or my Alpha’s loyalty to me, but-” 

“No! No, I’m not. Just saying.” Derek grips the steering wheel. “Just saying I’d understand if you were lonely, that’s all.” 

Derek doesn’t tempt himself by glancing Stiles’ way this time, and they ride to the grocery store in near silence - well, as silent as Stiles gets, which means Derek gets a running monologue of the research Stiles has done on poly-pack relationships. 

The burger is delicious, the company entertaining, even if they decide not to bring up any more tough topics by mutual agreement. They settle into Stiles’ couch, pulling up some reality show on Netflix that Stiles likes while Derek checks in with Erica and Boyd. 

Eventually, Derek realizes Stiles hasn’t said anything for a few minutes and looks up from his laptop. Stiles’ hand is tucked under his chin, and he’s leaning up against the side of the couch, fast asleep. His heartbeat is slow and steady, and his face looks peaceful. 

Derek leaves him be for the forty minutes it takes to run through everything with Erica and Boyd. When he realizes that Stiles is really down for the count, for the evening, not just ‘resting his eyes’ for a bit, he moves to pick him up in his arms. He gets as far as lifting Stiles up against his chest. 

Stiles groans. “Don’ wanna.” 

Derek allows himself a small smile. “You’ll be more comfortable if I-”

“Don’ wanna sleep in the murder bed, Der,” Stiles mumbles, burying his face in Derek’s neck. His fingers clutch at Derek’s henley, and within moments, Derek can tell, he’s fast asleep again. 

“You make a good point,” Derek murmurs, settling back into the couch, Stiles still on top of him. He will quite possibly regret this in the morning, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to stomach sleeping on the ‘murder bed’ either. 

With his free hand, he starts searching with his phone for a mattress store they can visit tomorrow.


	4. A Bro's Guide to Avoiding a Stereotypical YA Love Triangle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super long! It just...ended up that way. :D
> 
> I added "masturbation in shower" and "masturbation" tags for this, as well as some more spoilery tags that I'll put in the end notes.

Stiles vaguely remembers getting really hot in the night, like that time when his apartment building’s furnace went on the fritz and started blasting hot air into every apartment when it was already 90 degrees outside. He groans, pulling off his flannel and t-shirt before settling back into the unusual warmth of his mattress. 

The first thing he thinks upon waking is that he feels rested for once. It’s been...years? Since he felt this way. Reminds him a little of sleepovers with Scott and the pack, and puppy piles, and happy Alpha-

Stiles pushes up, startled when his hand meets Derek’s solid body. “Oh my god, did I-? Oh dude, I am so sorry.” He stumbles backwards, which means sitting on his coffee table, narrowly avoiding crushing Derek’s laptop with his ass as he scrambles for his shirt. “Oh god.” 

He finds it dumped unceremoniously on the floor, then remembers taking it off because of the heat…”Right. Were body heat. It’s been awhile.” 

The last thing he sees before pulling the shirt over his head is Derek, blinking tiredly at him. 

“You know what?” Stiles asks, muffled by the shirt. “I’m going to make you breakfast.” 

He scrambles up with his face still covered, refusing to bring his shirt down before he’s no longer looking at Derek. He shuffles his way around the couch safely, then pulls it down and breathes deeply. Despite everything, despite the embarrassed adrenaline currently coursing through his veins, he feels  _ amazing. _

He sticks his head in the fridge - the cool air helps the fierce blush currently assaulting his cheeks - and hears Derek shuffle off to the bathroom. Good. Good. Gives them both some time to settle down. Because Derek’s amazingly solid body wasn’t the only hard thing Stiles had felt when he’d pushed up off of the Were. Biology - morning wood - is a hell of a thing. Totally natural. Unbidden response to stimuli. 

Stiles readjusts himself more comfortably before pulling out the ingredients for omelets. 

Derek looks unfairly hot freshly showered, Stiles thinks, as he brings Derek his omelet, fully loaded. Stiles doesn’t have a dining table - he never entertains here, after all - so they settle onto the couch to eat again, at opposite ends this time. Which is how Stiles remembers sitting last night, and look where that ended up, so…

“I’m sorry about last night,” he mumbles. “I know I crossed boundaries without your consent, and-” 

Derek glances up from his phone, flicking those amazing hazel-green eyes at Stiles before forking up some of his omelet. “Sure, you didn’t ask, but I would have moved you if I hadn’t been okay with it. I mean, I wouldn’t expect you to drape yourself all over my lap if you were fully awake without asking, but last night was fine.” 

“Right. Well. I won’t. Drape myself over you, I mean. Again, sorry about that. Your back must be killing you, being my mattress all night.” 

Derek flexes his shoulders, stretching, then shakes his head. “Feels fine. Weres heal fast.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Similarly, Stiles knows he is in  _ deep _ shit. Why hasn’t his morning wood gone away? He sets down his half-eaten omelet and hurries off to the bathroom. “I’m, uh, going to be shooting and editing all day, probably. You could even leave me alone here if you want to go out and um, hunt Kate personally. You changed the lock yourself, so even if she has a master…” 

Derek scowls at him. “We don’t know that that’s how she got in last time. For all we know this one will be as easy to break in as your other one was.” 

“You said it was burglar proof.” 

“It may not be terrorist proof, though. I’m not leaving you behind.” 

_ Well, there goes the plan to masturbate in peace.  _ “Okay, cool. Awesome. Um. So I’m just going to go shower then. To get ready for my video shoot.” 

Derek just stares at him, and Stiles realizes he hasn’t actually started moving yet. Hurriedly, he walks into the bathroom and shuts the door solidly behind him. Thinking hard and fast, he flicks on the vent fan. It’s old and terrible and makes this horrible clunking noise that he kind of hates, but the point is, it’s  _ loud. _ Then, he turns on some music on his phone. Louder than is probably necessary. Finally, over the pounding of the shower, it seems like he’s made himself a Were-ear soundproof little bubble. 

He leans his arm against the tile of the shower, his other hand smoothing over his chest, teasing his nipples to peaks quickly before moving down over his stomach. He doesn’t have a lot of time for this, and it’s just morning wood, he just needs relief so he can go about his day. When he wraps his hand around his cock, he lets out a little whimper, leaning his forehead into his arm. He wants it over, quick and dirty, and when that happens - when he just needs to jack it so he can stop being distracted by it - he normally pictures some hot celebrity, whispering in his ear and encouraging him. This time, though, no Chris Evans appears. Instead it’s Derek’s lips at his neck, Derek’s breath playing over his ear and making him shiver, Derek telling him he’s doing such a good job. Stiles groans, trying to keep it quiet, as his expert hand squeezes, shuttles over his cock, then thumbs over his slit. If Derek were in here, there’d barely be room for the both of them, and Derek would have to be pressed up against his back. Stiles can almost feel him there, his body almost searingly hot, his hard cock slotting between Stiles’ legs. Stiles’ fingers scrabble for purchase at the tiles as he speeds up, whimpering Derek’s name, his orgasm popping just a little behind his eyelids as his cum mixes with the water in the drain. 

He gives himself about ten seconds of  _ c’mon Stiles, get your shit together, you can’t do this again, oh my god -  _ before washing off his hand and moving efficiently through the rest of his shower routine - including a scent neutralizing soap. 

If Derek heard him, or if he smells anything on him, he doesn’t say anything, just leaving Stiles alone to his work while he has terse conversations with Erica and Boyd or works on his laptop. For his part, once Stiles focuses on writing his script, he pretty much ignores the rest of the world. Scott always called it Stiles’ research mode, the ability to hyperfocus on something above all other things. Stiles likes to think of it as his superpower even if it made school incredibly hard, even with meds. He’s not sure Finstock ever forgave him for that essay on male circumcision. 

The glory of his current job is that very rarely is he researching something he isn’t fascinated by. Unlike school, he gets to pick the prompts. It’s glorious.

He pops back and forth between typing and reading the script aloud to see how it sounds, and clicking through the billion research tabs he has open and figuring out which ones he’s going to cite, when there’s a knock on the door of the second bedroom. 

Stiles blinks owlishly - he’s been looking at the computer screen for way too long - and realizes five hours have gone by, and he’s sort of hungry. “Uh, yeah, come in, Der,” he says absently, rubbing a hand over his stomach and stretching. 

“Listen, this stuff is all in your fridge so I had to figure you like it or you wouldn’t have bought it, right?” Derek plunks a plate on the computer table in front of Stiles. 

The sandwich Derek made is  _ stacked  _ and Stiles’ mouth begins to water. “You...weren’t wrong, for sure.” He hums, leaning forward to pick up one half of it - he sees swiss cheese and ham and pickle and mustard and mayo, and he wants to moan. Then he takes a bite, and abandons all hope of containing his enjoyment. “Oh my god, Der, it’s  _ so good.”  _ He opens it up, piling on some of the plain potato chips Derek had given him, then crunching them down with the bread. 

He stands, halfway through the process of taking a bite, and holds out his hand for one of those bro-tap hugs. Derek rolls his eyes, but does the thing with him anyway. “I’m, uh, eating mine in the living room?” 

“Oh, yeah, that’s probably a good thing. Moving around. Get the juices flowing. Hey-” Stiles interrupts himself with another bite. After chewing, he says, “Hey, did you know…” and then he’s off again, settling on the couch, Derek at his side, explaining in painstaking detail the research he’d been doing.

The amazing thing about Stiles, Derek has learned quickly, is that he barely needs anything to hold a conversation almost completely with himself. Derek grunts, and Stiles launches into another monologue that lasts five minutes. The weird thing is, he’s not boring. 

“Are you an only child?” he finds himself asking, when Stiles is finishing off the sandwich with a gargantuan bite. Honestly, Derek’s in awe of the size of Stiles’ mouth in a way he probably shouldn’t be thinking about. 

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up, but he nods as he finishes chewing. 

_ Makes sense, _ Derek thinks. He’s not sure he’s ever met someone so attention-starved. 

“I mean, Scott is basically my brother. Not by blood, not by household, but- yeah.” Stiles looks away, pink tinging his cheeks. 

_ It’s not the same as blood. _ That’s Derek’s immediate thought, but then again, that’s not quite true, is it? “Found family is just as important as blood.” It has to be, or Derek couldn’t keep on existing. 

Stiles gives him a small smile and nod. 

It’s getting harder not to notice exactly how attractive that smile makes his face. Derek wants to groan at himself. 

“Hey, speaking of, um.” Derek rubs his neck. “Listen, I’d totally understand if you wouldn’t want to, but...I’d like to have a face-to-face with Erica and Boyd about their progress, and we all need pack time…” 

“Oh, yeah, dude, of course. I will lock myself up tight and uh, put a chair under the knob for good measure. Won’t open the door to anyone, promise.” Stiles holds up three fingers, though Derek doubts he was ever a Scout. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me dude, and we’ve been over this. I’m not leaving you behind. I was asking if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me. If you need to stay and work, I’ll stay and work, too.” 

“Oh, um.” Stiles glances over at the front door to his apartment, then back down at his hands, clenched in his lap. “Yeah, I mean, um-” Another glance at the door. 

Derek follows this all, understanding blooming inside him. He holds out his hand, surprised when Stiles actually takes it.  _ Attention starved. _ “You know, if someone in your situation was...nervous about going back outside, about leaving their safe space, that would be totally understandable.” 

Stiles’ eyes meet his. “Yeah-” Stiles’ voice squeaks out, and he clears his throat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” 

“Guess I can’t be proper bait if I never leave the apartment, huh?”

“Stiles, that’s not-”

Stiles holds up the hand that’s not currently clutching Derek’s. “Joking. Kidding. Ask my friends, they’ll tell you I have a sick sense of humor.” He looks back away, and silence descends. “It’s just, like. Autumn died in a ‘car accident.’ Do you know how many car accidents happen in LA a day? And let’s say we avoid the car, and walk? Cars run pedestrians over all the time. Or a million other accidents Kate could orchestrate. She stands behind me and pushes me into oncoming traffic. Hell, she stands behind me and then just like, stabs me or something. We pick up coffee and she slips some type of fast acting poison in there. She’s killed before, Derek, she’s-”

“I know.” The words come out biting, final, and Derek hadn’t intended them that way, but he also doesn’t apologize. “Did your research, huh? Did my last name come up?”

Stiles pulls his hand away, and seems to shrink into the corner of the couch. “No.” 

Derek grunts. “I guess we weren’t important enough to make it.” 

“Der-”

Derek closes his eyes. “My sister used to call me Der. My twin, Laura, she used to call me Der all the time.” He lets his eyes close, and he can practically hear Laura’s voice calling out to him. “Twelve years ago, Kate systematically burned my family home to the ground, with my pack inside it. I was with my younger sister, Cora, staying the night with friends. We were the only survivors.” 

Stiles blinks at him, but somehow remains completely silent.

“I am  _ not _ going to let you die, Stiles. I can’t.” 

“You found a new pack.”

“It’s not the same-”

“No, I meant, I didn’t mean- I wasn’t accusing you of anything. Just.” Stiles pulls his knee up to his chest, hugging it. “Just, I’m glad. Glad you have Erica and Boyd, so yeah, we can go to...wherever it is you wanted to meet up with them.” 

Derek gives him a short nod. 

“Just give me, like, ten minutes to wrap up things to a good spot?” 

“Sure.” 

Instead of watching Stiles get up and walk away, Derek busies himself cleaning up the plates from lunch. 

Erica and Boyd share a small apartment that adjoins Derek’s - it’s a building set up to accommodate Weres, and though it cost way too much to rent, Derek refuses to set up the pack in any place for more than six months. Nowhere the anti-supernatural terrorists fg0could find them easily and quickly. As such, Derek’s side is little more than a futon in the living room that doubles as his bed, and a wi-fi router. 

So it’s Erica and Boyd’s side that he takes Stiles to. Boyd, surprisingly, is the one that cares about making a place look lived-in. He’s been that way ever since he and Erica had exchanged mating bites. Derek has no one to ask, but he thinks it might be Boyd’s way of nesting, of providing for his mate. Regardless, their side actually has … stuff. Stuff that’s a pain in Derek’s ass to help them haul every six months, but stuff nonetheless. Boyd’s become an expert in putting it up and packing it away quickly. 

He lets himself in with his own key, Stiles trailing behind, laptop bag over his shoulder. The place gets Stiles’ little nod of approval and interest, and suddenly Derek is glad he’s not showing Stiles his actual place. 

“We can set up over here while we wait for them.” Derek strolls over to the dining room, which has been overrun with boards for the current case. 

“Wow, you have a murder board.” Stiles is studying it intently, and his fingers seem to reach out on their own volition to trace over the bold black letters that stamp out the name Kate Argent underneath a picture of the terrorist. “So. Kate. Wow. She’s definitely got the crazy eyes.” 

“Most people think she’s pretty,” Derek prods, for no particular reason, crossing his arms over his chest as Erica and Boyd enter the apartment.

“Eh.” Stiles looks back at him, winking. “I’ve seen better.” 

“Like me, right?” Erica bounces in the room, setting her bag down on the dining room table and sliding her arms around Derek in a hug. Derek obliges, letting her scent him, scenting her back with a swipe of his hands over her arms. 

“I was thinking more like Boyd, but you’re pretty, too," Stiles replies with a grin.   


Boyd snorts as he locks the door behind himself. Derek reaches him first, sliding his hand to the back of Boyd’s neck and squeezing. He feels the Beta relax minutely under his touch. 

Stiles, as ever, continues to surprise Derek by staying mostly quiet as they settle at the dining table and start to talk about the case. It’s something Derek likes to do, run it detail by detail as they try to figure out what angles they’ve missed. He’s been working with Erica and Boyd longer than they’ve all worked for the FBI, and they have a groove. Stiles, apparently, sees that, and doesn’t step on it. He looks, for all intents and purposes, like he’s buried in his own research. 

“The local hunter groups have disavowed all knowledge, of course,” Erica says, adding some notes and sticking them on the board. 

“Yeah, I think I can lean on Insull a little harder though.” Boyd crosses his arms, leaning back. 

“Davis Insull?” Stiles says, sitting up straighter, then flushing. “Sorry. I’ll let you get back to it.” 

“You know Davis Insull.” Boyd doesn’t ask it as a question, more of a statement of incredulity. 

“Sure. I did a series of videos with him about the Hunter Code in his bar.” 

_ “You _ went to Red Arrow?” Now Derek crosses his arms, leaning back, his gaze narrowing at Stiles. 

“Sure. It’s so not as rough as Davis makes it out to be, honestly, but I didn’t say that in the video. I didn’t want him to get upset.” 

“You didn’t want  _ Davis Insull,  _ werewolf hunter, to ‘get upset.’” Erika repeats. 

“Listen, guys, he wants to distinguish himself from terrorists like Kate as much as anyone would. He’s strictly a Code guy, and you know what happens when either the hunters or the Weres get too insular. We don’t need another Ashland incident. Supernatural-mundane systems work best when they function  _ together, _ you know that, or you wouldn’t be working for the FBI. Davis knows that, too. He has just as much a stake at bringing Kate down as we do. And don’t we need allies? I mean...not that we’re a ‘we.’”

Erica meets Derek’s eyes over Stiles’ head, and arches a brow in interest. 

“I could talk with him if you guys wanted,” Stiles offers with a small shrug. 

Derek turns to Boyd. “You’re the one that brought Insull up. What did you sense?” 

Boyd raises one shoulder and lets it drop. “He seemed...mostly amenable. Let me talk to him, anyway.” 

Stiles taps on his phone, and then holds it out for Derek to see. It’s open to a text message to “Davis,” an unsent message on the screen: “Hey, I heard you talked to my friend Boyd today. Off the record, can you tell me anything about Kate Argent? The matter is sort of urgent.” 

“Sort of?” Erica snorts. “Yeah, it’s just your life, Stiles, no biggie.” 

Stiles, amazingly, blushes. “Believe me, this is the best way to do this. You want me to send it or not?” 

Derek shares a glance with Erica and Boyd again, silently asking their opinions. At their assent, he nods. “Send it.” 

“I don’t understand why he insisted on meeting you at the bar,” Derek mutters with a scowl as he parks his nondescript car down the block. The noise from Red Arrow can be heard from here, hunters milling about, checking out each others’ motorcycles and other vehicles. “I can’t believe you’ve been here before.” 

_ You wouldn’t be the first person to underestimate me, _ Stiles thinks as he strides toward the hunter bar. “Davis normally expects people to come to him. That’s why he let me set up my stuff here.” 

They get more than a few looks and flashed weapons within the first few feet of the bar, but almost right away, one of the hunters smiles widely at Stiles and crosses to him. “Stilinski!” the woman roars in a fake Russian accent. 

“Maggie!” Stiles lets himself be hugged and slapped on the back by the Werecoyote, and then she’s guiding him and Derek inside. Derek seems surprised that there’s a Were among Davis’ ranks, but that’s just what Stiles had been trying to get across in his videos. The more supernaturals and mundanes worked together to take down both mundane terrorists and dangerous supernaturals like feral Omegas, the better. 

Maggie takes them the roundabout way through the bar, making sure Stiles greets every one of the hunters he’d met during his series, before taking them to see Davis in the backroom. 

Davis is chatting with a couple of other hunters when they walk in, holding court like the Godfather might, but those hunters shift away, flanking Davis instead, as Stiles and Derek are led in. 

“Davis, it’s great to see you,” Stiles says with a smile, holding out a fist to bump. 

Davis stands, pulling Stiles in for a hug by the hand instead, and Stiles blushes like he always does around Davis. Up until 24 hours ago, Stiles would have said Davis is the most attractive man on the planet. Stiles glances back at the current holder of the title, idly wondering if Davis and Derek being in the same room will cause some sort of attractiveness implosion. 

They’re opposites in most ways, really, even though they’re probably about the same age. Davis is blonde, with deep brown eyes that can be hypnotizing, Stiles swears. He’s also shorter than Derek by a couple of inches, though that may just be Derek bringing himself to his full height in the face of another Alpha male - Davis might not be a soop, but he might as well be an Alpha Were with the power he commands. 

Derek scowls at Davis’ prolonged physical contact with Stiles. 

“Tell me what this is about,” Davis says when he finally releases Stiles from the hug. He leans against his desk casually, a ruse, Stiles knows. 

Stiles settles in one of the chairs, though Derek remains standing, just behind Stiles, his hand resting right above Stiles’ shoulder on the back of the chair. “Every rogue hunter - terrorist - makes the hunting community look bad. And when the hunting community looks bad, it becomes easier for the government to justify shutting you guys down. And no one wants the government alone being in charge of Omega capture. You know what a shitty record they have.” 

“Sure.” Davis shrugs. “Logical as always, Stiles. That doesn’t tell me what you’re doing mixed up in this business. You interviewing Feds for your channel now?” Davis’ eyes shoot over his head to Derek. 

“Not exactly, no.” Stiles leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. “Two nights ago, Kate Argent left me a little present in the form of a mutilated squirrel on my bed. In all likelihood, she’s marked me for assassination for my support of the Supernatural Rights Amendment. I’d like to live to see her caught, Davis.” 

Davis, ever the smooth operator, doesn’t show any surprise. “I’m putting a detail on you.” He nods at one of the other hunters, who moves away. 

“Hold that thought, Chuck,” Stiles says coolly, and the hunter stops. Stiles turns back to Davis. “Not that I don’t appreciate it, but your brand of protection will scare her off. I’ve got what I need.” He nods back at Derek, who’s shifting his weight from one foot to the other, antsy. 

Davis’ eyes measure Derek fully. “I see.” He looks back down at Stiles, smiling. “So I suppose you want me to do what I do best?” He winks. 

24 hours ago, that wink would have sent Stiles’ stomach all aflutter. There’d been a time when Davis had been the star of Stiles’ fantasies.  _ Am I really so fickle? _

“Yeah, I want you to  _ hunt.”  _

Behind him, Derek grunts in approval.

_ If I’m fickle, why does Derek feel so different? _

“We can hunt. We’re not much for cooperating with the Feds, though.” 

“See, and isn’t that just a shame? Why can’t we all get along, fellas? I swear, you two meet under different circumstances, you’d be fast friends.” 

Derek scoffs and Davis rolls his eyes. 

“Okay, so maybe not,” Stiles concedes. 

“Stiles, I’m going to do it, of course I’m going to do it. Kate painted a target on her back the moment she scared you. Your work is actually important, even for hardheaded asses like us.” Davis smiles his charming smile, his hand encompassing both himself and Derek. 

“I don’t like him,” Derek mutters on their way out of the bar. 

“Gee, really? I couldn’t tell.” 

Derek snorts a little at Stiles’ sarcastic tone. “I don’t like him, but I could probably respect him. Especially if he captures Kate.” 

Stiles blows out a breath in surprise. “That’s...good. Thank you. For trusting me to ask him, I mean.” 

“I’m still surprised your Alpha didn’t object to you going in there in the first place.” 

“Have you ever heard that it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission? That’s applies doubly when you don’t live near your Alpha,” Stiles replies with an unrepentant grin. 

“You’re a menace-”

They’re nearing the car when the shot rings out, and Stiles’ blood freezes. His whole body freezes, and he is suddenly keenly aware that between fight or flight, he’s apparently freeze, which seems like the worst option. 

In the bare second he freezes, Derek’s shoving his body down behind the car, behind him, letting his wolf out in a Beta shift. In shock, Stiles tries to figure out where he’s been hit, but a catalog of his body only brings up where his knees and palms sting from falling to the ground. He’s tense, waiting for another shot, waiting for it all to end, even though it’s not Kate’s MO. 

_ It’s not Kate’s MO.  _

That thought is starting to bleed through Stiles’ brain even as Derek shifts back to human form. “It was a fucking motorcycle backfiring,” he whispers at the same time that Stiles comes to a similar conclusion. Derek looks down at him. “Shit, Stiles, I’m sorry-” He reaches down to help Stiles up. 

“No, it’s okay, just doing your job, dude. I’d rather be a little bruised than dead.” 

“Dead from motorcycle backfire.” Derek gives him this private little grin, and for some reason  _ that’s _ the thing that sets Stiles’ stomach aflutter. 

He laughs, because- because it feels so damned  _ good _ to laugh. “Oh my god,” Stiles mutters, wiping wet away from his eyes. The move unbalances him, and he would have fallen directly on his ass...if Derek hadn’t pulled him directly into his arms, instead. 

Stiles can feel his heart beating rapidly from the anxiety - and he knows he’s probably going to crash some point later tonight - but Derek’s mouth is  _ inches _ away from his, and they’re out of sight, still sitting partially behind the painfully average FBI car, and Derek’s eyes on locked on his, and- “Tell me you want this, too,” Stiles whispers, leaning in slightly. 

In answer, Derek pulls Stiles to him, closing the gap and letting his lips slide over Stiles’. 

It is - it’s an awkward angle, to be honest, and his knees still hurt from the fall, but  _ god, _ it’s everything a first kiss is supposed to be, and more, somehow, like every damn kiss a Disney prince ever gave, combined. Stiles moans, shifting, trying to get even closer to Derek, trying to mesh their mouths together at a better angle, trying, trying  _ anything.  _

Derek’s hand slides behind his head, resting on his neck, a mirror of the scenting he performed on Boyd earlier that day, and Stiles groans. All the times Scott has ever done that same little wolfy move, it’s never felt like  _ this. _ Like Stiles wants to melt under Derek’s hand, offer his neck and his heart and anything Derek wants, and it should be fucking scary, but it’s not, even though Stiles’ heart is trying to beat through his ribcage. 

When he feels lightheaded, he pulls back, gasping out a breath.  _ “Dude.”  _

Derek’s grin is a beaming, blinding thing. “Don’t call me that.” He rubs his stubbly cheek over Stiles’, marking him, scenting him, and Stiles sighs. 

“Okay, Alpha,” Stiles teases. 

Derek growls predictably. “You sound  _ way _ too good saying that.” 

Stiles leans in for another kiss, his fingers clutching at Derek’s leather jacket, but he gives a small wince when the motion hurts his scraped palm. It’s enough of a signal that Derek’s nose twitches, and then he pulls back, examining Stiles’ hand. 

“It’s nothing, promise. Back to kissing.” 

“You’ve got gravel embedded. I’m going to have to clean this out. I’m sorry, I didn’t - I just...was only thinking about getting you to safety.” 

“Dude- I mean, Derek, I’d much rather have sore palms and knees for a few days than be dead. We already covered this ground. Please, feel free to do all the shoving you want.” 

Derek stands, lifting Stiles gently with him. “I’ll ask Erica and Boyd to pick up some bandages while we head back.” He holds Stiles’ wrists, inspecting his palms still. Suddenly, the sting is gone, and Stiles watches small black ropes wind their way up the skin of Derek’s hands and wrists before disappearing under his jacket sleeves. 

“I’ve always loved that trick,” Stiles says with a grin, leaning up to brush a short kiss over Derek’s lips. “Scott had to take my pain a lot. I was stupendously clumsy teenager.” 

“I’d believe it.” Derek opens the door for Stiles and helps him get buckled. “Just keep holding your palms out for me.” 

When Derek slides into the driver’s seat, Stiles can’t help but study his profile. They pull away from the parking spot in silence. 

“This should be a monumentally, colossally stupid idea. It doesn’t feel that way to me,” Stiles near whispers into the quiet. 

Derek is quiet for a couple more beats. “It doesn’t feel that way to me either, and I don’t know why.” He offers Stiles a pensive face, and a shrug. “All I know is I want to cover you in my scent and make sure nothing ever hurts you again.” 

Stiles takes a quick breath. “I- I- yes please,” he says with a small, choking laugh. “I volunteer as tribute.” 

They’re stopped at a light, and Derek chuckles, letting his forehead fall down to the steering wheel. “I want you to fall asleep wrapped all around me again.” 

“You’re basically a furnace, and no, that’s not me complaining.” Stiles chances a glance over at Derek as traffic gets moving again.

There’s another long silence. 

“I don’t want you to have to take care of yourself all alone in the shower again,” Derek practically growls, and this time Stiles does genuinely gasp. 

“I was trying not to be a creeper! You didn’t ask for any of this,” Stiles exclaims, making vague motions at his crotch region. 

“I am now. I mean, whatever you want. I probably want it, too.” 

“Holy shit, dude.” Stiles waves his bloodied hands. “Holy shit, you know I’m going to have to see Erica and Boyd again, smelling all aroused and shit. How do you  _ do  _ this to me?” 

“If you figure it out, let me know, okay?” Derek says with a laugh. “Because the feeling’s mutual.” 

Stiles’ heart starts thumping all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a First Kiss tag, too. :)


	5. A Bro's Guide to First Aid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very schmoopy, smutty chapter. Hey, remember, I did NOT promise a slow burn, lol. 
> 
> Added tags (spoilers, don't read below if you don't want spoiled): 
> 
> Minor hurt/comfort, Blow Jobs, Coming in Pants
> 
> :D what a chapter!

Derek’s able to pull Stiles through Erica and Boyd’s apartment to pick up the cleaning supplies and bandages with a minimal amount of teasing on the part of his Betas. He is slightly embarrassed by his bare-bones apartment, especially when Stiles raises his eyebrows, but he keeps moving Stiles along to the small kitchen. 

He sets the First Aid stuff down, then turns, ghosting his fingers over Stiles’ hips. “I, uh, I was thinking, um, up on the counter?” 

Stiles looks at him with those deep, whiskey eyes that speak volumes. “Yeah, that sounds good- boost me?” 

Stiles’ weight is nothing for his Were strength, but there’s something so intimate about the way Stiles gives him permission to move him.  _ Trust. _

Derek hopes to God he’s earned it. 

Stiles’ long legs dangle over the counter, and apparently the seat makes him the perfect height to lean over and kiss Derek’s forehead even as Derek starts to gently clean the blood and dirt from Stiles’ palms. The gesture makes Derek’s heart skip a beat, and he tips his head up, abandoning his task so he can brush their lips together again. 

“What the fuck is this?” Stiles whispers when they break apart, his breath coming more quickly. 

“I don’t know.” He steals another kiss, and another, before finally letting himself pull away. “Stop distracting me.” 

Stiles snorts. “Sure,  _ I’m _ the one that’s distracting, got it. Ow-” 

“Sorry. This piece is embedded. I’m going to have to dig it out, okay?” Derek extends one of his claws, then quickly disinfects it with alcohol. Holding Stiles’ palm steady, he looks up to meet Stiles’ eyes. “I’m going to need you to be a big, brave boy for me now, okay?” 

This time Stiles laughs outright. “Just do it, sourwolf.” 

Derek’s smirking when he looks down, then takes a breath to steady his concentration. It’s only thirty seconds or so of careful digging, but Stiles doesn’t flinch. When Derek’s removed the stubborn piece of gravel, blood starts to flow freely, cleanly from the small wound, and Derek carefully washes it. 

He can feel Stiles’ luminous eyes watching him, the human abnormally quiet as he works. “What are you thinking about?” Derek inquires softly, although he’s not sure he wants to know. 

“Oh, just-” Stiles sighs. “Nothing’s going to happen if I hole myself up in my apartment all day. I think tonight was proof of that, even if it wasn’t Kate.” 

“What are you saying?” Derek starts to work on the other palm, which must be Stiles’ non-dominant hand, because it’s not injured as badly. 

“I could organize some meet ‘n greets. Fans love them. Sponsors love fans. It’s win-win.” 

“Yeah, win-win for Kate, too,” Derek mutters, though he pauses cleaning, letting himself consider the possibility. “If we had a place with controllable exits… nothing open air. No meet ‘n greet on the beach, or whatever. Too easy to get to you there.” 

“You met Jackson, right?” 

“Was he half-naked guy?” 

That gives Stiles pause for a second; he must be thinking back to two mornings ago, because he laughs, and nods. “Yeah, half-naked guy. What, were you jealous?” Stiles waggles his eyebrows. 

“No, he was clearly mated.”  _ Unlike Davis, who kept eyeing you like you were a piece of meat, Stiles.  _ “Anyway, yes, what about Jackson?”

“Okay, you’re not going to believe me, because, I mean...well, maybe you wouldn’t believe me if you had known him in high school, but anyway, he works at this local book store, and he’s always bugging me to help him promote the business.” 

“What would you do at a bookstore?” 

“What, did you only read the file long enough to get my first name? I wrote a book. I mean, it’s like, six months old at this point, but I have plenty of fans who didn’t get a signed copy on the first tour.” 

“You wrote a book?” 

“Don’t sound so incredulous! But yeah, every Youtuber has, I feel like, at this point. It’s no big deal.” 

Derek’s...astonished, to say the least. “Uh, yeah, it’s kind of a big deal.” 

He lets Stiles talk about putting together a book signing quickly for a minute while he finishes cleaning Stiles’ hands. In truth, Derek has been thinking along similar lines - that being out in public more will provide more opportunities for Kate to stick her head out, and the more she does that, the easier it becomes to catch her. 

When he looks up at Stiles, though, his face animated, his bandaged hands flying a mile a minute as he explains how the setup of the bookstore is perfect, all Derek wants to do is lock him away in a safe place and then tear LA apart piece by piece until his claws are sunk in Kate’s throat. 

It’s revenge for his pack, yes, but there’s something else there, now. Something Stiles shaped. 

“Do what you need to do to set it up. I want all of the details of the building. I’ll send Boyd to scope it out tomorrow.” 

“On it.” Stiles doesn’t move, though. 

“What’s up?” 

“I think my knees got scraped, too. You should check them.” Stiles grins as he says it, unable to remain coy and innocent as his fingers slip down to the fly of his pants.

Derek huffs out a partial laugh. “You’re a menace,” he repeats, leaning in to brush his lips over Stiles’. There’s something appealing about the height difference this way, about the way Stiles has to duck his head to meet Derek, the way his fingers slide through Derek’s hair, pulling him closer, until Derek’s pressed against the counter space between Stiles’ thighs. 

With a growl, Derek deepens the kiss while his hands cover Stiles’ on his pants. Together, they work his button open, his fly down, the rasping of the zipper joining their quickened breaths as the only sounds in the apartment. He can feel Stiles’ hard length beneath his briefs, and Derek lets his fingers skim over it, teasing, before he pushes Stiles’ pants over his hips. 

“Lift,” he murmurs against Stiles’ lips. Stiles lifts his hips, and Derek works his pants off. 

Stiles groans, though, when Derek pulls away, inspecting his bare knees. “You know that was just an excuse, right?” 

“Better safe than sorry.” Derek gives him a small smile before announcing his prognosis. “No broken skin, nothing embedded. I think you’ll live. Still-” He leans over, pressing a kiss on each bare knee. “I’ve heard mundanes think kisses help them heal.” 

“I’m a believer,” Stiles says on a whoosh of breath. 

Derek continues pressing kisses on the inside of Stiles’ knees, then up each thigh, stopping inches away from where Stiles is straining in his underwear. He pushes Stiles’ thighs open as wide as he can, kissing the crease where leg meets torso, burying his face there and inhaling Stiles’ heady scent. He smells like … like how it feels when Derek goes full shift and lets his wolf run through the countryside without a care in the world. 

“Der-” Stiles moans.

“I want to taste you.” 

Stiles lifts a hand to Derek’s head, his fingers tightening in Derek’s hair. “God, yes, please. You, uh, you want a condom? I’m negative, and I know you are, but-” 

“I want to taste  _ you,”  _ Derek repeats with a shake of his head. 

“Yes, okay. Roger that. Totally on board. Love this plan. Just, uh. Maybe the couch would be more comfortable?” 

Derek grins. “Hold on tight.” With only that warning, he slides his hands under Stiles’ ass - god, he has a delectable ass, and Derek is going to taste that, too, as soon as possible - and boosts him up against his body. Stiles yelps, circling his arms around Derek’s neck and squeezing Derek’s body with his thighs. “Yeah, just like that, baby.” 

Now Stiles groans, smashing their mouths together again without grace, all tongue and desire and  _ need. _ “You’re so fucking hot, how the fuck are you so fucking hot,” he mumbles in Derek’s ear as Derek begins walking them to the living area. 

“It’s a wolf thing,” Derek whispers back, deliberately misunderstanding, just to make Stiles laugh. 

It works - he throws his head back with the happiest sound Derek thinks he’s ever heard, and that’s exactly what Derek wanted, taking the opportunity to latch on to Stiles’ exposed neck and mark him. 

“Mmph, God, Der-” 

They tumble down onto the futon couch together, Stiles still straddling Derek as they make out. It would be easy as fuck to grind just like this until they both reach completion, and Derek gives it half a second’s thought before he remembers how much he wants to taste Stiles. 

Gently but firmly - Stiles has shown him how much he enjoys being manhandled, after all - Derek moves them until Stiles is laying down on his back, his shirt drifting up to show his belly button, his cock still trapped in his black briefs. Leaning back to look at him, to take in those long, lean legs, moles dotting the pale skin, the sweet softness of his belly- Derek’s wolf  _ howls _ inside of him. He practically shreds his own shirt, pulling it off, preening when Stiles’ eyes go liquid gold with desire. 

He leans over, taking Stiles’ lips in a fierce kiss, cupping his head, their tongues warring for dominance, but he doesn’t stay long, instead working his way down Stiles’ body. He loves the way Stiles’ nipples are hard and peaked, loves how his ab muscles clench and contract as Derek scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin there. Wasting no more time, he hooks his thumbs under Stiles’ waistband and pulls his briefs all the way off. 

“I’m going to taste you now,” Derek manages, feeling high off of the smell of Stiles’ arousal. “I want you to fuck my face.” 

He doesn’t wait for Stiles’ reaction, just takes Stiles’ cock into his mouth, tasting him for the first time. Stiles’ precum is bitter and salty on his tongue, and it’s quite possibly the best thing Derek has ever tasted. He may be addicted. He groans, going deeper, swallowing Stiles’ dick down, working his throat open. He can feel his claws threatening to pop on Stiles’ hip, and reaches up to grab one of Stiles’ hands instead, placing it on the back of his head. It takes Stiles two seconds to understand the signal, and then he’s clenching his fingers in Derek’s hair - the sharp pain feels so fucking good - and forcing Derek’s head to move. 

His Alpha wolf howls even as his human side submits to Stiles, gives Stiles all the power, all the control.  _ Trust. _ Derek’s sure he couldn’t have placed it anywhere better. Stiles doesn’t abuse it, but he’s not gentle, either, arching his hips and forcing his cock down Derek’s throat. Derek sighs, happily, practically purring at the ache in his jaw. It won’t last, his advanced healing won’t let him feel it tomorrow - but he doesn’t  _ care, _ because he can feel it now. 

“Der, I’m not going to last- I’m gonna come-” Stiles pulls him off his cock, and Derek looks up.

“I fucking want it,” Derek answers to Stiles’ silent question, his voice an octave lower and scratchy from the blow job. He gives Stiles everything, every swirl of tongue into every secret place, and growls with happiness when Stiles comes down his throat a few seconds later. Derek holds him in his mouth, cleaning him, until Stiles’ fingers loosen as they pull back his head. His spent cock is still twitching when it falls from Derek’s mouth, and the smell of Stiles’ cum, that smell Derek had been able to scent on him this morning, though just vaguely, the smell of satisfied male, satisfied  _ mate- _ that smell, and the thought of that word, pushes him over the edge, and he whimpers, humping against the futon like he’s a teenager having a wet dream. 

Stiles grips the back of his neck, urging him up, and Derek can’t help but go, sliding their lips together, sharing the taste of Stiles’ cum between them. His cock, still trapped in his jeans, is pressing against Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles reaches down, palming his cock and pressing hard. The extra friction is all Derek needs, and he comes, his face buried in Stiles’ throat. 

“Holy fuck-” Stiles manages, his voice high and breathy. 

Derek grunts, wrapping his arms around Stiles. Stiles reciprocates, his leg coming up to wrap Derek and tangle them together even further, his hand stroking over the sweaty skin of Derek’s back. Derek hasn’t left the comfort of Stiles’ neck, obsessed with the heady smell of contentment he finds there. God, if he could, he’d bottle the smell and use it to help him sleep at night. Stiles’ cheek comes to rest against Derek’s head, the fingers of his other hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“That was...really fucking good,” Stiles murmurs into the silence. 

Derek’s still not feeling verbal, so he grunts again in what he hopes is acquiescence even as he turns his head to press kisses along Stiles’ jaw. Stiles hums, his throat vibrating, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Every little thing Stiles does seems to make Derek’s wolf simultaneously content and turned on. 

“Let me up, just a sec,” Stiles whispers, when they've been sitting there for a few long minutes of silence. “I’ll be right back.” 

Derek watches as he pads to the kitchen, bare ass showing under the hem of his shirt. He takes one of the clean towels Derek hadn’t used on his hands, and gets it wet in the sink. He smiles as he saunters back to the futon. “Believe me, you don’t want to fall asleep this way.” 

Gently, slowly, as if waiting for Derek to protest, Stiles undoes Derek’s jeans and pushes them down, boxers and all. Derek watches, can’t help but hold his breath as he watches Stiles see him for the first time. Leaning down, Stiles nuzzles against Derek’s spent cock, then carefully sucks the head clean of Derek’s cum. 

The thought that Derek’s seed is now marking Stiles from the inside out is more than enough for Derek’s cock to stir again, but Stiles just smirks knowingly up at him, cleaning him with the warm towel with efficient strokes. He tosses the towel on the floor and crawls up Derek’s body, nestling into his arms. 

“You know, this is the third night in a row I’m sleeping on the couch,” he grumbles, though his lips are tipped up in a smile. 

“Fuck,” Derek curses, cupping Stiles cheek and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “I was going to get you a new mattress today.” 

“I don’t know, I think my body is just resigned to this kind of abuse now,” Stiles snarks.

Derek laughs, smoothing his hand down Stiles’ side, then reaching around to goose Stiles’ ass. Even as Stiles squawks at him, he reaches up to pull the lever, and the futon slides down into bed form. 

“Ooo la la, what a provider, hey-” Stiles laughs as Derek nips at his neck for his snark. 

Derek reaches under the futon to pull out a blanket, and drapes it over them. It takes Stiles a few minutes to settle in - apparently it had been much easier to settle in last night when he’d been asleep - but then they’re there, settled, Stiles’ head pillowed on his shoulder, Derek’s arm wrapped around Stiles’ body, Stiles’ hand resting on Derek’s stomach. 

It goes unsaid, the strange feeling of rightness when this  _ should _ be a horrible idea - though that word,  _ mate, _ pops into Derek’s head just before he closes his eyes to rest, Stiles’ breath and heart finally steady. 

Derek’s heart pounds once, just a split-second of panic, before sleep overcomes him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the final grad school comprehensive exam has been turned in. Now it's a waiting game for grading. Send me all the good vibes (or, just, send good vibes out to all the college students in general in the world who are hustling to make it right now!)


	6. A Bro's Guide to Having That Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles likes waking up in Derek's arms. 
> 
> Tags (spoilers): 
> 
> Rimming, Versatile Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

This time, when Stiles wakes up wrapped in Derek’s body, while he  _ does _ immediately panic, because he’s very not used to waking up with someone next to him, let alone wrapped together like they’re some kind of cinnamon-twist donut, he prides himself in not pushing Derek away. 

He’s looking at Derek’s sleeping face for about two milliseconds before the Were’s eyes pop open, glowing a little red in the low light. They quickly fade to that beautiful green hazel as Derek lifts his head up to make sure there’s no threat, then settles back down to meet Stiles’ eyes. 

Stiles can’t fault the man’s commitment to guarding him. 

“Hey,” he says, hoping his morning breath isn’t too awful. 

It must not be, because Derek slowly leans in, sliding their morning-dry lips together. He lingers, nibbling a little at Stiles’ bottom lip in a way that makes Stiles’ heart flutter, and his dick perk up and take interest. “Hey.” 

Derek’s voice is morning-rough, the same way his voice last night had been blow-job rough, and Stiles is suddenly way more than interested. His lips skate over the rough scratch of Derek’s stubble, and over to his ear. “You wanna?” 

He accentuates the question by rolling his hips towards Derek’s fully naked body. 

Derek growls out his  _ “Yes,”  _ rolling Stiles onto his back and covering him once again with the furnace that is his body. 

Stiles’ fingers skate over Derek’s back, tracing every detailed muscle, moaning when he gets to that perfect ass, cupping his cheeks, squeezing the firmness. Not an ounce of fat on Derek, except here, where his ass just is perfectly the right size for Stiles’ hands.  _ “Fuck-” _

Derek smiles even as he captures Stiles’ lips again, and they lose themselves to a few minutes of hot and heavy making out. Derek’s hands are roaming Stiles’ body now, pulling off the shirt he’d worn overnight. 

Struck by sudden self-consciousness, Stiles freezes below Derek, and Derek immediately freezes as well. “You can leave it on if you want,” Derek says sincerely, his eyes meeting Stiles’. His gaze continues to slide down Stiles’ body, though, not looking disgusted by Stiles’ complete lack of the oh-so pretty muscles the Were himself sports. 

Swallowing, Stiles shakes his head, willing his self-consciousness away. Derek smiles at him, kissing him again, then working his way down his throat - he lingers there for several long moments - before slipping one of Stiles’ nipples between his lips. 

Stiles groans, his fingers threading through Derek’s hair. He’s fairly sure Derek’s mapped every single part of his body with his lips now. 

At least, that’s what he thought, until Derek slides all the way down and, instead of taking Stiles’ cock in his mouth, he spreads Stiles’ thighs and licks directly over Stiles’ hole. Stiles jerks, his cock spitting precum on his stomach. 

“Der! You don’t, I mean- if you don’t want to-” Stiles blurts out on a gasp as Derek’s tongue continues to work over Stiles’ hole. 

Derek pauses, glancing up at him, the look on his face positively, well,  _ feral.  _ Like he couldn’t be more pleased. But he kisses Stiles’ inner thigh, and seems to rein it in. “If you don’t want me to, I won’t.” 

“I’ve never, I mean. No one’s ever…” For once in his life, Stiles can’t seem to get the words out. 

Derek’s smile is slow and sweet, but his eyes are absolutely  _ burning. _ “I want to.” 

Stiles’ “Okay!” comes out strangled, but enthusiastic, and slides directly into a moan as Derek resumes. 

It’s like nothing Stiles has ever felt, Derek’s tongue slowly working him open. He clutches at the lumpy futon mattress and arches his hips up, trying to get Derek even deeper inside him. Derek growls, using his hands to anchor Stiles into position, and just fucking  _ goes to town. _ Stiles is left a helpless, writhing mess, babbling incoherently, his fingers cramping where he’s holding the mattress so tightly. He lets his eyes fall closed, unable to take more sensory input when Derek is methodically stretching his rim with the careful work of his tongue. 

One of Derek’s arms leaves his thighs, and a few seconds later, his saliva-wet finger is sliding in alongside his tongue. If Stiles was babbling nonsense before, now he’s not sure that the sounds coming out of his mouth could be classified as anything. He throws one arm over his eyes, his fingers clenching uselessly when Derek expertly strokes directly over his prostate. He brings the other down to his own cock, he has to, he has to find some relief-

“No. Come from my tongue or nothing,” Derek growls, and Stiles moans, full-body shivering at the tone of the Were’s command.

To reward him, Derek seems to double his efforts, pressing over his prostate again and again, rubbing at his perineum, tongue fucking into him. Stiles’ cock is leaking precum all over his stomach, he’s not sure he’s ever been this wet, he’s not sure he can do this-

Derek gives one brutal twist of Stiles’ cock and Stiles goes blind, his orgasm pushing through him like lightning, the euphoria zipping through all of his limbs. He stiffens, his legs clamping around Derek’s head as he rides it out, then collapses back on the futon mattress, utterly spent. 

His fingers tangle in Derek’s hair. “C’mere. C’mere, I’ll do you.” 

Derek works his way up slowly, licking through the pool of cum on Stiles’ belly, swirling his slick tongue over one of Stiles’ nipples, and finally settling his mouth over Stiles’, who accepts him gladly. “No need,” he mutters, rubbing his stubble over Stiles’ neck as if he could embed his scent several layers of skin down. “There is now a need to change the sheets, though.” 

Stiles snorts, then laughs outright, so fucking euphoric still, gathering Derek in his arms. “You’re so fucking hot, I can’t even.” 

“Can’t even what? I never understood that phrasing.” 

“I’ve just completely ceased being able to even.” Stiles laughs again, kissing Derek’s sweaty forehead. “Makes total sense.” 

They lay there for a few moments, catching their breath. It’s never, ever been like this for Stiles. Never this instant attraction, never this amazing with someone else, never. And with someone that he can admire, can respect, can actually stand to spend long hours of time with without getting annoyed. 

“We should probably shower. I need to get going on the plans for the book signing,” Stiles finally says.

“We?” Derek sounds genuinely surprised, and Stiles turns to him, resting his chin on Derek’s chest. 

“What, you didn’t expect the invitation, sourwolf?” He leans up, groaning at how sore his limbs are, both from the horrible mattress and their...activities of the last 9 hours. “Come on. Let’s go. Get that cute ass moving.” He reaches out to slap said ass, only for Derek to stop him halfway, wrestle him back down to the mattress, and swat  _ his _ ass instead. “Okay, werewolf strength for bed sports, no fair. We have to have a level playing field here.” 

Derek just snorts, lifting Stiles up and throwing him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry despite Stiles’ loud squawk. It does put Stiles in prime position to tap that ass, though, so he does. A lot. Like a set of bongos. God, Derek’s ass is perfect.

“I”m in love with your ass, you know,” Stiles calls. 

“You know, same.” Derek sets him down in the shower, turning the water on. When it comes out cold, Stiles squawks again and pulls Derek under the water with him to suffer just the same. ‘Course, Derek’s got that Werewolf body heat, but all that means is Stiles just has to get closer. Maybe make out some more. 

They come up for air in another minute, Stiles still laughing, Derek smiling. Derek’s hands are achingly attentive as he starts to sweep soap over Stiles’ body, and Stiles can’t be anything but reverent for those absolutely mouthwatering muscles. As he strokes over Derek’s ass, his lips betray his thoughts and he actually blurts aloud, “God, I hope you bottom.”

After a moment’s silence, in which Stiles clamps his hand over his mouth, Derek laughs, crowding Stiles up against the side of the shower. “I’m an Alpha.” His hands sweep down Stiles’ skin, ghosting over his cock before gripping his hip. “Which means most people expect me to fuck them. And god, I want to, Stiles. I want to sink right into you and never come out.” He leans in, licking a stripe of shower water from Stiles’ neck, then biting on his ear lobe. “But there’s nothing that turns me on quite so much as submitting to someone I absolutely trust. It’s never happened before, but the thought of it…”

Derek’s breath is hot on his neck as he sucks marks there, and Stiles feels weak in the knees at Derek’s confession. Something’s blooming inside him, some type of warmth at the thought that Derek could trust him that much. “So you’ve never bottomed?” 

“Never met anyone my wolf would let fuck me.” 

Stiles blows out a breath. “No pressure,” he mutters, even as the warmth blossoms through his limbs and he finally identifies it as  _ happiness. _ A type of happiness and contentment he hasn’t felt in a long time. Not since Scott started dating Allison and Isaac, probably, so  _ years. _

“No pressure at all, Stiles,” Derek responds seriously, cupping Stiles’ face and looking into his eyes. “Got it?” 

“Got it. And, uh. Just for the record. Uh. Put me down for both?” 

Derek snorts, leaning in to give him a deep kiss, before he makes Stiles turn around to start shampooing his hair. 

“Do you have any clothes I could borrow? I mean, I can do the whole ‘walk of shame’ thing but-” Stiles gets cut off by the boxers thrown in his face. “Thanks.” 

They get dressed in mostly silence, though Derek laughs when Stiles puts on the hoodie and pants he’d given the human. “You look ridiculous.”

Stiles holds his arms out, giving Derek a little twirl, extra fabric flapping around him. “I feel like I belong in the ‘90s.” 

Erica laughs long and loud at him when they come over to pick up his laptop bag. Derek flashes his eyes at her, but she just rolls hers back and hooks her arm around Stiles’ to pull him to the kitchen. “Derek, we’re going to talk about your sex life. Go bother Boyd, he’s downstairs at the gym.” 

Derek arches his brow, and he looks like he’s just about to protest, when Erica whammies him with, “Trust me.”

With a brief nod at her, and another for Stiles, Derek walks out. 

“So, uh...walls aren’t soundproof, huh?” Stiles asks sheepishly, leaning against the counter as Erica starts putting fruit and protein powder into a blender. 

“These are,” she answers, pointing to one of the walls opposite the wall shared with Derek’s apartment. “The building is set up for packs, so the walls between packs are soundproof, but the walls within the pack’s set of apartments aren’t, so we can hear each other.” 

“Ugh.” 

Erica grins at him. “It’s okay, you made sure Boyd got very, very lucky. Twice.” 

“Oh, god.” Stiles isn’t sure he could be more red. “Sorry, seriously.” 

Erica shrugs. “I just wanted to pull you aside because...he needs someone like you, and he’d be the last person to admit it, but he’s so emotionally constipated it’s not even funny.” 

“I thought you were going to give me the shovel talk,” Stiles says in surprise. 

“Oh, yeah, if you break his heart, I’ll kill you. But I think it’s far more likely he’ll break yours, sadly. What I’m here to tell you is, if he tries, you shouldn’t let him. With Derek you just have to...force the issue, sometimes.” 

“Do you tell this to all his, uh, lovers?” 

“Just the ones he lets sleep in his apartment and wear his clothes, so that would be, um,” Erica lifts up her fingers as if to count, “let’s see, uh, well, you, and then there’s, uh, you. Oh, and you.” She taps her nose with the one finger she’s counted out, then turns back to the blender, pulsing her smoothie. “You want some? I’m making Boyd one, too.” 

Stiles shakes his head. “I’ll grab something back at my apartment. I’ve got a lot of work to get done if we want to catch Kate.” 

“Hey, that’s my line. Just let me text Derek that the coast is clear and he can accompany you out.” 

There’s a major difference in how Derek guards him, now, and that’s that one of Derek’s hands is nestled firmly at his back at all times, leading Stiles, connecting them. Even in the car, Derek’s hand creeps across the center module to his thigh, and Stiles places his own over it, threading their fingers together. 

He wants to let Derek concentrate on driving, though, so he lets his gaze wander over the crowds on the streets as they pass by. 

That’s why he sees her.

At a red light near Stiles’ place, Stiles idly window shops the fancy clothing stores he’ll never relate to, except that he could  _ totally _ see Derek in that suit, he’d look so hot, like some movie star for the red carpet- and then there’s Kate Argent. 

Her hair’s a different color than the file photo the agents had on their murder wall, but it’s her, it’s definitely her. He squeezes Derek’s hand involuntarily. “Der, it’s-” 

And then a bus passes in between them, and when it moves, Kate’s...not Kate. Just some other brown-haired woman. Stiles furrows his brow. He can’t really remember if Kate was wearing what this brunette is or not. Had it just been all in his mind?

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks urgently, looking out the same window as Stiles. 

“Nothing. It was nothing. Fuck. Sorry.” Stiles doesn’t meet Derek’s eyes. “It’s green,” he mumbles, but Derek doesn’t move, looking at him, probably trying to figure out why he's lying. It takes someone laying on their horn behind them to get Derek going again. 

Stiles scrubs over his face.  _ I’m just tired. And stressed. Anyone would be seeing things in this type of situation.  _

Still, it’s not until he’s inside his apartment and has checked the deadbolt and chain personally that he finally relaxes. 


	7. A Bro's Guide to Surviving an Assassination Attempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling conclusion!
> 
> This chapter contains both smut and violence, please be advised. 
> 
> Tags added (spoilers in author notes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I sat down to write a chapter today because I'm going to be gone on Sunday, and then this happened, aka, the whole rest of the story, so I decided to publish all of it.
> 
> What's pacing? Fuck pacing. 
> 
> But, due to time constraints I have not yet edited it very well. I only looked for blue and red squiggly lines. So, if there's a major error, please feel free to politely let me know, and if you're reading this in the future, hopefully I've caught and edited them all. 
> 
> Spoiler tags added: fire, hospitals, injury

Derek watches Stiles lock the door firmly, then sag against it, his forehead coming to rest on the solid wood. 

He wants to know why Stiles lied to him in the car, but Stiles seems incredibly fragile all of a sudden. He sets down his bag and steps in beside Stiles, his hand hovering over Stiles' shoulders. He wants to comfort, but doesn’t know how when he doesn’t know what’s wrong. 

“I hate this,” Stiles whispers, the sound mostly muffled by the door, but for Derek’s werewolf hearing. 

Derek tries not to take that statement and follow it to any of the billion negative places he could. Instead, he closes his eyes, trying to remember the car ride over, trying to focus. “What do you hate?” 

“Feeling scared.” Stiles snorts in derision at himself. “I’m the sheriff’s son, I know the world isn’t all kittens and rainbows. It’s just never been...so personal before, I guess.” 

Derek’s hand comes down to rub over Stiles’ shoulder involuntarily. He supposes his body knows what to do even when his mind doesn’t. “It’s okay to be scared.” 

Stiles snorts, turning his head slightly to look up at Derek. He may sound angry, but the look in his eyes is _prey,_ and Derek hates it, too. 

“I think I’m going crazy,” Stiles mutters, turning around and letting his back rest on the door, crossing his arms over his chest, a protective gesture. 

“Oh?” Derek’s hand feels weird now that it’s not rubbing Stiles’ back, and he flexes his fingers, unsure of what to do with it. 

“I saw Kate outside-” 

_“What?!”_ Immediately, Derek’s pulling Stiles away from the door, pushing the human behind him while he checks all of the locks personally. “Where? What was she doing? Did she see you? What’s her current description-” 

Stiles pulls at his shirt, getting him to turn back around. “Der, it wasn’t her. It wasn’t even the right hair color. That’s what I mean. She’s driving me _crazy._ I’m hallucinating now.” 

Derek’s racing heart, activated by the instinct to _protect mate_ in a way he definitely does not want to analyze, starts to slow again. Still, feeling a little overwhelmed, he pulls Stiles towards himself, grateful when Stiles willingly steps into his arms. This, this feels right, Stiles’ body pressed against his, safe, whole. Nuzzling in, Derek presses a kiss to his neck. 

After a few moments, he drops the hug, though he’s still clutching Stiles’ shoulders. “If you’re feeling up to it, I want you to take me back to where you saw her.” 

“I told you it wasn’t-” 

Derek cups Stiles’ cheek. “You’re not crazy. Trust your instincts.” 

Stiles trembles underneath his hand, though his eyes look determined. “My instincts are telling me I shouldn’t be in this apartment anymore.” 

Derek’s thumb drifts over Stiles’ cheekbone. “We can make that happen. We won’t go full on witness protection, but we’ll make that happen, okay?” 

Stiles’ hand comes up, squeezing at his wrist once before releasing it with a nod. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool.” He turns away, presumably to start packing up something larger than his laptop bag. 

Stiles’ phone dings just as Derek starts the process of finding them a safe hotel room. Stiles turns away from him to deal with it. When they come back together a few minutes later, Stiles’ face is apprehensive again. 

“I’ve got a room for us. Kind of seedy, but I trust the owners.” 

“Hey, ‘kind of seedy’ is my middle name. Jackson got back to me. The book shop is ours tomorrow, if we want it.” 

Derek’s brow furrows. “Can you get an event hyped in that short amount of time?” 

Stiles laughs, but it’s humorless. “I could probably get my LA fans to meet right _now_ if we wanted them to. They’re very dedicated.” He tosses his phone on the couch and then collapses there himself, scrubbing at his face. “Is that doable on your end? Will you all have enough time to set it up how you want? Because I’m not going to lie, I’d rather just get this all over with. Get my life back to normal. Go apartment shopping. Et cetera.” 

Derek tries not to think about how Stiles’ ‘normal’ doesn’t include him. That’s a bridge they can cross when they come to it. “You willing to go check it out with me in person?” 

Stiles looks up at him, tired. “Don’t have much of a choice, do I?” 

Derek’s silent for a moment, then shakes his head. 

“You know, if not for the imminent threat of danger, death, and terrorism, this might be considered a date,” Stiles observes, taking a casual sip of his coffee as Derek scans the room and draws in his notebook. 

His pen falters, and he looks up at Stiles. They’re in the book shop’s little cafe area, near the space Stiles will be signing books tomorrow. They’d already hit the street corner Stiles thought he saw Kate on - as Stiles had guessed, Derek couldn’t pick out her scent, but he’d gotten an uneasy feeling, walking there. He doesn’t think Stiles was hallucinating.

Now, finding Stiles smirking at him, obviously bored, Derek leans back. “God, I hope all of your dates aren’t as horrible as this is,” he teases. 

Mirth lights up Stiles’ eyes as he takes another drink. He leans across the table toward Derek. “You know, you could give me a job, maybe. Give me something to entertain myself.” 

“I’m...not sure you meant that to sound as suggestive as it does.” 

Stiles hums. “You keep on thinking that,” he replies with a wink.

Rolling his eyes, Derek leans over, showing Stiles what he’s been sketching out. “Agent McCall’s giving me two more agents, so we can cover all of the entrances. I’ll be by your side as your assistant, the rest in the crowd in civilian clothes. Don’t be surprised if Erica comes up to you acting like a fan. Just sign something for her and keep her moving.” 

Stiles studies the page, interested. “This reminds me of my lacrosse coach’s playbook.” 

“Football, but yeah, guilty. When’d you play?” 

“Of _course_ you played football. God, you have hometown hero written all over you. I played in high school, then some intramural in college. I’ve been thinking about trying to find a beer league but it’s not as popular down here.” 

Derek laughs, thinking back. “No, no hero status. My mom was big on having us play sports with mundanes to teach us to temper our powers. According to her, it was a ‘special kind of challenge’ no one else had to deal with. When she- when my family died, I had to take care of my younger sister Cora, and had no one to encourage me anymore, so…” Derek gives a little shrug. 

“Look at us, sharing personal information. Like a _date.”_ Under the table, though, Stiles’ knee touches his and lingers there, in comfort. 

They linger for a moment in relative silence - Stiles is still providing small bits of commentary on passersby - which is...nice. Being with Stiles is nice.

Also incredibly hot and dirty, but- 

Nice. 

Derek likes nice. 

He finds his hand slipping over Stiles’ on the table. Stiles starts a little, looking up at him, then relaxes again, their fingers sliding together. 

After an evening of planning spent at the Betas’ apartment, Stiles paces the small confines of the motel room. It’s one of those two story, by the hour joints, but Derek swears by it.

Derek’s putting the final touches on the plan, going over it for the umpteenth time, but Stiles can’t _settle,_ and it’s driving him crazy. Finally, he stops his pacing, joining Derek on the bed and taking his laptop to Derek’s light protest. He immediately replaces the laptop with his own body, straddling Derek and wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck. 

“I need a distraction,” he murmurs against Derek’s ear. “You up for it?” 

Derek’s hands sweep down his back and rest comfortably on his ass. He grinds up a little, and Stiles can feel his cock pressing against Stiles’ own. He nods right into kissing Stiles, and Stiles melts against his body, sinking into it. 

With hurried movements, Stiles reaches down, releasing first his own cock and then maneuvering Derek’s out of his sleep pants. He groans, sliding his dick over Derek’s. “God, you’ve such a pretty dick,” he groans, thumbing over Derek’s slit, wiping precum around. “All the better to fuck me with, right?” 

Derek pauses, and Stiles worries his sense of humor has taken things too far, but then he realizes Derek’s shaking with _laughter._ These gorgeous tiny giggles that are wracking his body, his face lit up in a smile, his eyes going a little glassy from laughter-tears, his cute bunny teeth biting into his lip to hold it all back. 

God, why does that fucking _do it_ for Stiles? He does some type of mixture between a laugh and a groan, incredibly turned on, grinding their cocks together again. “I’ll work on my dirty talk,” Stiles mutters before he sucks a mark under Derek’s ear. 

“Don’t you-” Derek gasps when Stiles bites him, “Don’t you dare. Apparently I’m turned on by cheesy jokes.” 

“Well then, we’re a match made in heaven.” Stiles heart stutters when Derek’s big hand, slick with saliva, wraps around the both of them. “I’ve got horrible jokes for days.” 

“Oh no,” Derek replies, his tone dry. 

“Shut up.” Stiles shuts him up with a kiss, long and deep, as he moves his hips in time with Derek’s strokes. 

It’s over incredibly fast, Stiles’ heart jackrabbiting against his ribs as Derek drowns his shout in the kiss. The feeling of Derek’s hot cum sliding over his dick sends Stiles over the edge, too. They sag into each other, into the bed, riding out the feeling of euphoria. 

Eventually, Derek grabs a few tissues from the bedside table - Stiles has to assume that’s what they’re there for, honestly - and cleans them up, tucking their dicks back into their pants. Stiles murmurs his thanks, feeling sated, though the edgy feeling of a panic attack is still plaguing him. He can feel it simmering, out there on the boundaries of his mind, lurking, waiting. Just like Kate. 

And then Derek kisses him, rubbing over his body, trying to be as comforting as possible. 

And maybe it’s because his body has just come to accept it as a new normal, but he falls asleep right there, like that, wrapped in Derek’s arms, cushioned by his body. 

“I just wanted you to know,” the teenage girl says, tears brimming in her eyes, words coming out a mile a minute, “that your video on explaining mixed relationships to mundane parents helped me come out. I introduced my girlfriend to them, and they didn’t freak out, it was a miracle.” 

Stiles stands, wrapping the girl in his arms for a quick hug. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, which has become a rote answer for him when he’s confronted with fans like this. He can’t take credit for something they did, even if he gave them the courage to, or the words to. “I wish you folks the best, okay?” 

The fan wipes the tears from her cheeks and nods, looking like she’s about to explode with nerves or happiness or something. Unable to say any more, she thrusts the book she’d been clutching out to him, and he gratefully accepts it. “Who can I make it out to?” 

“Dana, please,” she manages. 

He scribbles a small note to Dana - ‘Seriously proud of you. You rock!’ (small drawing of a bro fist) ~Stiles - hands it back to her, and takes a short breath before launching right into the next interaction. 

The line for the event stretches out the door, where it seems to be attracting even more people. Social media’s blowing up; Stiles couldn’t have asked for a better turn out. Too bad it’s all to lure a murderer. These types of things are draining enough - though Stiles loves meeting fans - without the anxiety of possible assassination hanging over him. 

Derek’s playing attentive assistant, but his laptop is up, and every so often, in between fans, he types out a note so Stiles can see the progress of the team. The last one had read, _“Davis and hunters running perimeter checks several blocks out. Nothing yet.”_

So Stiles just keeps his smile plastered to his face and his writing hand warm and ready. 

Jackson’s hovering by the signing desk, facilitating the event, making sure everything is running smoothly for the shop. The last thing Stiles wants is for something to happen to his friend’s business, so he hopes Davis and the hunters catch Kate well away from here. 

Lydia also refused to not be a part of the plan, so that’s another section of Stiles’ low-key anxiety. She’s sitting in the cafe, watching everything, her senses - mundane and supernatural - all keyed in. 

And then there’s the fear that Kate won’t be lured out by this. Sure, Stiles _feels_ like this is the big climactic ending, but Kate’s not exactly known for impulse decisions. She likes plans. Maybe they pushed her timing too hard, and she won’t show. Maybe- 

Derek’s knee nudges against his, and Stiles realizes he’d spaced out in front of a fan. “I’m so sorry. Who am I making this out to?” 

“Camilla, please,” the girl says nervously. It always amuses Stiles how his channel’s main demo is teenage girls when it’s called ‘A Bro’s Guide,’ but then again, fuck gender stereotypes. 

The next fan gushes over his work to destigmatize taking meds, and asks for another hug, which Stiles is happy to accommodate. When he sits back down, again, though, he notices Derek’s sitting up straight, looking sharply at the crowd. He quickly scribbles off his signature, then holds up a “just a sec” finger for the next fan, apology hopefully evident on his face as he turns to Derek. 

“What’s up?” 

“They spotted her. One of the hunters spotted her heading this way, and lost her.” Derek turns away for a second, obviously listening to something in his ear. “Confirm latest description. Brunette?” Derek’s eyes slide over to Stiles’ knowingly, and Stiles swallows hard. 

So maybe he’s not seeing things, then. 

“Everything okay?” It’s Jackson, standing in between Stiles and the next fan waiting in line.

“The eagle has landed,” Stiles mutters. His hand, the one holding the signing Sharpie, shakes a little. “Let’s keep going.” 

Jackson stays close, though, his nose flaring, his eyes searching the crowd, as Stiles continues to work his way through the line. He only hopes no one will go on social media and post about him being distracted or quiet and stuck up in front of his fans, because he knows he’s not giving his hundred percent. 

Just when he thinks he’s going to break down and freak out from the tension, it breaks when a commotion starts in the line outside. Everyone inside can hear the yelling, and then a physical fight breaks out - between two brunettes. Stiles clutches at Derek’s thigh under the table for about a millisecond before he’s been forced to his feet and behind Derek. 

Jackson rushes toward the fight - his property, of course he would - but Derek stays in front of him, scanning the crowd. His back is pressed against a bookshelf, and it’s a relatively safe position to be in. 

“We’ve locked down the entrances,” Derek says in his ear. “She’s possibly still in here, it’s going to take a second to sort out the mess outside, but I have no doubt that while she started it, she’s probably not one of those brunettes.” 

“Got it,” Stiles replies, breathless. 

The fans in front of him are starting to grow restless, and he steps out from behind Derek, determined to save his friend from any property damage. 

“Hey folks, let’s take this to the cafe, yeah? Let’s move away from the fight, yeah, come this way.” 

Derek looks extremely annoyed with him, but Stiles is able to get the line to settle down again. Derek hovering at his side, he starts to move through it quickly, trying to at least get signatures for everyone who was waiting before the commotion outside started. Once they get their signature, the fans are motioned by Lydia out the cafe entrance on the other side of the building from the fight, so slowly, the book store starts to clear out. Every new person he meets, every bump against his body, he thinks it’s going to be Kate. The tension is starting to get to him, his signatures sloppy as he tries to hold his hand steady. 

And then he reaches the end of the line, and Kate’s not there. 

An employee announces the store’s closure - early, due to the commotion, and probably Jackson's call - and the remaining patrons either start making their way out the cafe door, or to a register to check out. No one lunges for Stiles. No bullets go off. No one offers him a mysterious drink. The store closes down exactly as normal, despite the front entrance still being blocked off, police now outside dealing with the two women who’d apparently gotten in a fight over something completely unrelated to Stiles’ line. A coincidence. 

A motorcycle backfiring all over again. 

After hours of adrenaline, Stiles sags back into his signing chair. He can feel the bad alchemy flowing through his veins right now, and he knows he’s going to crash soon. Disappointment echoes through every part of his body. 

“Clear the building,” Derek says, able to speak openly to his team now that he doesn’t have to play Stiles’ assistant for strangers. “Every room, including bathrooms.” He turns back to Stiles. “We’ll get you out of here soon,” he promises. 

Stiles nods, swallowing. “Sure. Sounds good.” 

He’s not sure how much longer he can take this torture. 

His whole body jolts when he hears a shout - Erica - coming from the back hall where the bathrooms are. It’s the sound of a wolf in pain, and Stiles shoots up out of his seat. 

“Stay down,” Derek growls, shoving Stiles under the signing table. “I’ll be right back.” 

With that, Derek beta shifts and races away, and Stiles is left alone, hugging his knees and straining to hear anything he can. Within seconds, Lydia drops down beside him, holding his hand. “Still don’t hear your death,” she says, squeezing his fingers. 

He almost asks her if she hears Derek’s, but holds back. 

The whole thing is over in less than five minutes. There’s a lot of agents shouting, and then everything quiets down. Derek’s the first thing he sees, still shifting from beta to human as he pulls Stiles up to his feet. “You’re safe.” 

Stiles lets himself start shaking, not quite ready to believe it. “Kate?” 

“Caught her.” He nods over Stiles’ shoulder, where Boyd and Erica - thank God Erica is fine - are walking an extremely calm - eerily calm - Kate Argent, handcuffed, out the door of the book shop. 

“Oh,” Stiles says, taking a long breath out. “That’s- that’s awesome.” He’s trying, but he can’t seem to muster enthusiasm. His body just wants to crash. 

“It’s okay,” Derek murmurs, kissing his forehead. “You’re safe now.” 

And then Stiles is breaking down, hugging Derek, babbling and sputtering and crying like an idiot, and Derek just strokes over his back, quietly talking him down. 

When Stiles has quieted, Derek murmurs, “I have to go in. I’m- she- my family. I have to go in and make sure they get a confession out of her. I have to make sure she goes down for all of this.” 

“Of course you do,” Stiles replies, though his arms feel bereft when Derek walks out of them. “Go.” 

“Stiles-” 

“Go.” Stiles musters a smile. “Fuck her up.” 

Derek’s grin back is a little feral. “Oh, I will.” 

And then Derek’s gone, following Erica and Boyd’s car to whatever secure location they’re taking Kate to. Stiles collapses into the signing chair, but he’s immediately accosted by one of the agents who wants to take his statement from start to finish. It doesn’t take long to lay the whole thing out, minus some...personal moments that he edits for the PG version. 

When he’s finally released, he deflates. There’s no reason to go back to the hotel, Jackson had his stuff in the back office. And it’s not like he can go to the pack apartments. It makes him uneasy, thinking about his old neighborhood, thinking about Kate and the apartment. But Derek assured him of his safety, why should he be uneasy?

In the end, he chooses the comfort of home, locking himself tightly in his apartment and collapsing on the couch. His phone is blowing up with notifications, buzzing on the glass of his coffee table, and he grumbles, turning it off. 

After some restlessness - the couch isn’t nearly as comfortable without Derek’s body making it all nice and warm - Stiles falls asleep. 

Derek stands, his arms crossed, as Kate sits coolly in the interrogation room. He’s on the other side of the two-way mirror, his frustration mounting. 

She hasn’t said a thing. 

She also hasn’t called for her lawyer, or her one call.

She’s just...spinning her wheels as Boyd sits across from her, equally silent since she’s not cooperating. 

“I could go in and get a confession,” Erica snarls. 

Derek shakes his head. “We do this clean. She’s going down for multiple life sentences, no parole. We want that, we need it clean.” 

Erica makes a frustrated sound at his side. 

“Yeah.” 

“How long do we have before we have to transfer her to holding?” 

Derek glances at the clock. “Quite a few hours yet.” 

He texts Boyd to come back in, and Boyd complies with as much silence as Kate is displaying. 

“They can’t ever just act like super villains in a movie and monologue their plans, can they?” he mutters in greeting to Boyd, pleased when Boyd offers him a small snort. 

“Nope.” 

“I’m going to go get us some food,” Erica announces with a flounce out the door. 

After a light dinner, Derek decides to take the next round with her. She sits there, that small smirk on her face, answering his questions with complete silence. 

Just as Derek’s about to leave again, frustrated, the interrogation room clock slips over to 6:03 and Kate grins broadly, sweeping her hands over the desk. “Okay, I’ll talk.” 

Derek pauses, his hand on the doorknob. He turns. 

“I don’t know why you want me to talk, but I’ll talk.” 

Derek offers a nonchalant shrug. “Looks good for the paperwork if we have a confession.” 

Kate laughs. “Oh, sure. But we all know I’m going to get my daddy to pay whatever fee I need to and I’ll end up in minimum security, five years at most.” 

“You’re delusional.” As Derek watches her, though, he realizes she truly believes it. 

“And you’re an abomination, so.” Kate shrugs delicately, inspecting her nails. 

“Your _racism_ is a terminal disease.” 

“Oh, yes, very terminal,” Kate says with a laugh. “Look at my alleged body count.” 

“Why?” 

_“If_ I were confessing, _if_ I had done these awful things...whoever did these awful things, they must believe in their cause very, very much.” 

“And what cause is that? Why’d you change tactics? You used to take out packs, now you’re taking out prominent pro-supernatural social media stars? What’s the motive here?” Kate tsks, and Derek rolls his eyes. “What do you think the motive of the perpetrator is?” 

“I mean, I can’t know, I can’t just read someone’s mind. But it’s fairly obvious that there are good reasons to fear supernaturals. In a war between soops and norms, who’s going to win? Perhaps this … misguided soul just believes they’re doing what they can to protect their species.” 

The propaganda makes Derek want to throw up, preferably _on_ her, but he’s always had a stomach of steel. 

“This person, though. It’s interesting they changed tactics, don’t you think? And why, you ask? Certainly killing packs would be more efficient for their cause. Wolves are just so...flammable.” She meets his eyes, then, letting him see to the depths of her dark, twisted soul, and what he sees is terrifying. “Aren’t they, Agent _Hale.”_

The door opens behind them, and Boyd enters, simply standing by Derek’s side. Though he’s not in physical contact with his beta, the support is all he needs. 

Kate scoffs at the show of support, though, rolling her eyes at Boyd. “Then again, humans are pretty flammable, too. But, you know, it’s much more efficient to sow discord. To make people hate each other. Look at every one of Stilinski’s video’s comments section. Such _hate,_ slinging back and forth. It’s delightful. But, this person, the person trying to hurt these people, they might see that and wonder how to manipulate it in their favor.” 

“If Stiles is dead, you can’t manip-”

Kate laughs outright, cutting him off. “Please. The dead are the easiest to manipulate. They’re not there to protect themselves. Your family died in a fire that your father tragically started himself when he grew jealous of your mother’s Alpha powers. See, look how easy it is.” 

“You’re-” Derek cuts himself off, turning to the door. “Boyd, see if she has anything else useful to say.” 

Kate just continues cackling even as he shuts the door on her. He leans against it for a second, letting his breath even out. 

At 5:58pm, an automatic timer sets off a small number of incendiary devices. Placed strategically, near curtains and other flammable materials, the fires spread quickly through the fourth floor of the apartment building. Two are put out by fast-thinking residents of the apartment, puzzled and frantic when their overhead sprinklers don’t go off. Two others, though, are in unoccupied apartments, and by 6:05, smoke is seeping out under those apartment doors. It takes another few minutes for one of the fourth floor residents to realize what’s happening, and call the fire department. One, the father of a family of five, his three-year-old son in his arms so they can move quickly, pulls the fire alarm as they quickly evacuate the building. 

At 6:08pm, just as across town, Derek’s leaving Kate’s room to take a breather, on the fifth floor, Stiles wakes up choking on air. He blinks, but the haze in front of his eyes doesn’t go away. Panic slides him into survival mode, and he pops off the couch, looking for his phone. He curses the fact that’s powered down, and presses the button for it to restart even as he pulls his t-shirt up over his mouth and nose to block the smoke.

He crawls to the window that leads to the fire escape off his bedroom, quickly unlocking it and putting his shoulder into it to open it. It doesn’t budge, and the panic tries to sweep back into him. Blinking tears out of his eyes, he tries again, cursing his weakness. Coldness numbs him when he realizes there’s some type of clear sealant along the window, holding it to the frame. _Kate._ He’d never tried to open his windows after the mutilated animal, just made sure it was locked. 

Thinking he can maybe crawl along the ledge outside, he frantically starts trying other windows to no avail. He shrinks away from them when a window blows out the floor below him, spitting out smoke and flame. 

He abandons the fire escape plan, going for the stairs in the hallway instead. They’re all concrete. No way they can be on fire. He rushes, his lungs burning. His fingers slip on the locks and chain, but then he’s swinging his door open, dismayed to find out the hallway is just as smoky as his apartment. He coughs, trying not to breathe more than he absolutely has to, and keeps pushing his way down the hall. He knocks on doors to alert the neighbors, but luckily no one seems to be home. Well. At least Kate’s not going to take anyone else out with him. 

Finally reaching the stairs, he cries out in frustration when the door to the stairwell doesn’t budge. 

“Derek!” 

Derek shakes his head at the sound of distress in Erica’s voice. “What’s wrong?” 

“I still have an alert set up for Stiles’ address-” 

All of the blood in Derek’s body seems to drop to his toes. “What?” 

“Someone called 911 about four minutes ago. Fire. Fourth floor. That’s all I have right now. First responders are about two minutes out.” She has to yell the last bit at him because he’s already running toward the parking garage. 

“Tell Boyd. Meet me there,” he yells back, sprinting through the door and down the stairs. 

_She was stalling. That whole time, she was stalling. Sadist._

He slams into the car and races out of the garage. 

It takes another two minutes for him to hit traffic, but as soon as he does, he abandons the car. He’s only a couple of miles away at this point. Without a second thought, he shifts into his Alpha wolf form, shocking everyone around him - sure, mundanes know about full shifting, but it’s considered impolite to do in public, because of the panic of seeing a wolf, or a panther, or whatever other were-creature is shifting, just in the middle of the side walk - and puts on a burst of speed. 

“How? How did _she-”_ Stiles mumbles, tugging and pushing fruitlessly at the stairwell door. People would notice if it was vandalized, he’s sure of it. People use the stairs all the time. 

But then he remembers how the other apartments seemed unoccupied when he’d knocked. Sure, he doesn’t really keep track of neighbors. Is there anyone else up here? It’s not like this is the type of place where the top floor is prime real estate. Kate’s rich. She could have leased out the other three apartments. Or she could have lured his neighbors out somehow. Or-

Some other part of Stiles' brain screams _‘you don’t have time for this!’_ Stiles hastily agrees, abandoning the door again. He briefly considers trying to break into one of the other apartments, but he’s worried that if there’s a fire there, he’ll spread it faster. 

He can hear crackling below, and sirens outside. He has to get outside, there’s help outside. It’s getting harder to think. Stiles drops as close as he can to the ground, knowing smoke rises, but the floor is starting to feel hot…

Rushing back to his apartment, he tries the last thing he can think of, wishing he’d thought of it earlier. Grabbing the baseball bat he keeps beside his bed, Stiles takes a home run swing right into the glass window. It cracks, but doesn’t shatter. Still, it’s good enough to smash open in another hit. 

Grabbing some clothes from his hamper, he sweeps away jagged pieces of glass, though he feels cuts all along his arms and legs as he finally pushes out onto the fire escape, rolling out and landing on his back with a crash. 

There’s a lot of yelling from below, but the air out here is clean, and Stiles takes a second to breathe it. 

_That feels nice,_ he thinks. 

Another explosion from the fourth floor rocks the fire escape, managing to wake Stiles out of his stupor. He pushes himself up, and immediately groans from pain. Looking down, there’s a broken piece of glass sticking in - no, _through_ his arm. He thinks it’s just passing through fat and muscle, but it’s close enough to the major veins in his arm that he feels queasy. 

_No bleeding out when you’ve come this far, Mieczyslaw._

Determined, he holds his arm to his chest, trying not to move the glass at all, and uses the other to pull himself up. He has to keep moving. He has to get out of here. He’s not going to let Kate win. 

He races down the first flight of the fire escape, tentative when he passes the fourth floor. He hesitates, the metal feeling hot to the touch, flames still licking out of the window here. He could maybe run past it, but if it decides to explode again...

From below, there’s a long, urgent howl. Stiles spins, seeing a large black wolf pacing below him, trying to figure out its best way up. 

“No, Der,” Stiles rasps. “Just wait, I’ll come to you.” 

If only the fire was spitting out like in a video game where you can time your run. After a few seconds of watching it, his eyes streaming, his skin baking from the heat, Stiles goes for it, running past the fourth floor platform and down the stairs, keeping going until he’s well away from the flames again. He takes quick stock, but nothing’s on fire. The hair on the right side of his body feels like it’s been partially singed off, though. 

His relief carries him through the next floor, but by the time he reaches the second floor landing, he’s starting to feel woozy. He scrabbles at the ladder to push it down, seeing Derek pace below him. 

“I can’t- I can’t get it one-handed-” Stiles whispers, and he unfolds his injured arm from his chest, his fingers slippery with blood now helping him with the mechanism to unlock the last ladder. It’s just not-

The fire escape lurches again, and then there’s a very gloriously naked Derek Hale, grabbing onto the ladder and pulling himself up to the platform. “I can get it,” Derek assures him, and Stiles just nods, dazed. 

“Cool. I’m going to pass out now, ‘kay?” 

The last thing Stiles remembers is the look of panic on Derek’s face. 

When Stiles wakes, there’s an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose that he immediately takes tired offense to, trying to pull it off. Gentle but firm hands move his hands away, back to his sides. He grumbles, then slips back into sleep again. 

The next time he wakes, the oxygen mask is gone. That’s nice. His lungs are burning a little, but he doesn’t feel like he’s being suffocated anymore. 

“Stiles?” 

A shadow falls over him, and he blinks at it, trying to clear the blurriness. “Dad?” he whispers, his voice rasping. 

Sure enough, John’s relieved face starts to come into clarity for Stiles. “Welcome back.” 

He looks so, so tired, Stiles thinks. “What’re you- how-”

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for about 24 hours now, Sti. Lost a lot of blood, and smoke inhalation. You needed your rest.” John smiles at him, sitting on the side of his bed and squeezing Stiles’ uninjured hand. “The, uh, FBI called me. Which, I’ll tell you, I’ve dealt with the Feds before but that’s _not_ a call I want to get again. We flew down yesterday. Someone named Derek chartered a flight?” 

“We?” Stiles asks weakly, letting his eyes slip closed.

“The whole pack’s here. Scott’s been itching to see you but you know how hospitals don’t see Alpha relationships as legally binding.” 

“Is- are any of the FBI agents out there?” 

John seems to hesitate, and Stiles opens his eyes again, studying his features. “No, not anymore,” he says eventually. 

Hurt, the kind that can’t be relieved by morphine, floods his system. He gives a short nod. “Got it.” 

John’s fingers squeeze his hand again. “Why don’t you take another nap, Stiles, and I’ll get Scott in here when you wake up again.” 

Stiles nods weakly, finding it easy to comply. 

Scott looks just as tired and worried as his dad did, and he pauses in his approach to Stiles bed. For his part, Stiles is feeling strong enough to use the bed to help prop himself up to a seated position. When Scott draws near enough, Stiles holds out his arm, and though he’d normally give Scott a full on hug, the massive bandages on his right arm make it into a bro-hug instead. 

“Dude,” Scott breathes out, squeezing Stiles lightly. 

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. 

And just like that, it’s like old times with his best friend. He tells Scott everything that happened - though this time he includes sexy times with Derek, keeping it PG-13 for the sake of his best bud. 

“And I guess he’s probably gone now, so-” 

Scott snorts, shaking his head. 

“What?”

“If he’s gone, he’s not going to stay that way,” Scott replies mysteriously. 

“What do you mean?” Stiles furrows his brows, then tries not to think about Derek furrowing his brows and how sexy he looks all scowly. 

“He’s your Alpha now.” Scott says it simply, with no malice. He even looks a little happy for Stiles. 

“What? He’s not- I mean. How can you know?” 

“I can smell it. Your bond. Or maybe I’m smelling the lack of our bond, I’m not sure.” 

Stiles frowns. “You don’t seem- I mean. If this is all true, wouldn’t you be upset?” 

Scott sighs, standing, pacing the room. “Do you know how much it drives my wolf crazy that you’re living hundreds of miles away, where I can’t scent you and protect you?” 

“I- uh.” Stiles closes his mouth. He’d never really thought of that. “I’m sorry.” 

Scott dismisses that with a wave of his hand. “No, that’s not why I said that, I didn’t want an apology. I just- my wolf is a lot happier knowing that you have a pack that’s near. Packs should be near. I know it doesn’t work like that for humans, but...it must, at least a little, because you don’t smell like McCall pack anymore.” 

“You...could scent me?” Stiles offers and Scott shakes his head. 

“It wouldn’t work. I mean, maybe it would work if you came back, but… that’s not what you want to do, is it?” 

Stiles picks at the hospital blanket. “I can’t change things from Beacon Hills. I can’t fight against people like Kate from there. I need to be-” He shakes his head. “DC, maybe. Or New York, with the UN…” Stiles flaps his hand. “I’m going to have to research it. Anyway, I…”

“You can’t do it from Beacon Hills.” Scott’s voice is full of soft understanding. He smiles, reaching out to squeeze Stiles’ hand. “You do realize that you’re still my best friend, even if I’m not your Alpha, right?” 

“Yeah?” Stiles asks, his throat tight. 

“Of course. And you’re still the godfather of my first pup.” 

“Where did we land on naming him after me? I feel like almost being martyred for the cause of your people gives me some sway here.” 

“Absolutely not. Isaac might be down for the irony but Allison would kill me.” 

“Her loss.” 

“Her loss is literally my loss, too. That’s how mates work,” Scott says with a grin, settling more comfortably in beside Stiles. 

Stiles lets the silence sit for a little bit, but can’t resist breaking it. “He’s really my Alpha now?” Scott nods. “So fast.” 

Scott shrugs. “I knew Isaac was the missing piece to the Scallison puzzle immediately. It took a little more convincing to get him to realize neither Allison or I saw him as a third wheel.” He smiles, his face fond with memory. “But I knew right away. I could just...tell he’d fit perfectly.” 

Stiles nudges him with his shoulder. “I remember.” Then he frowns. “What if he doesn’t come back?” 

“He’ll come back,” Scott says with a confidence Stiles doesn’t feel. 

“Oh good, you’re awake.” John peeks his head around the door to Stiles’ hospital room, then motions to someone in the hallway. He turns back to Stiles. “Had to sneak them in, but-” 

The door bursts open, Derek at the forefront, being very obviously pushed by Erica and Boyd. 

“Hey Stiles!” Erica calls, her voice full of the effort it takes to push her Alpha into the room. 

“Feel better,” Boyd offers, and then he, Erica, and John all pop back into the hallway and close the door behind them with a click of finality. 

In the silent void between Derek and Stiles, Stiles’ machines continue to beep. 

“So I guess you’re my-”

“Stiles, I’m so sorry-”

They stumble over each other’s words, then both stop. Shaking his head, Stiles asks, “What’re you sorry for?” 

Derek’s hand sweeps up to encompass the hospital room. “I promised you wouldn’t get hurt.” 

Stiles isn’t a Were, but he swears he can smell the guilt and self-loathing Derek is projecting. “I think you promised that I wouldn’t get killed, which, you know, gold star, I’m still breathing.” 

The hint at Stiles’ mortality is apparently what breaks Derek, because next thing Stiles knows, he’s got an armful of warm Were, Derek’s nose buried in his neck. 

With his free hand, Stiles runs his fingers through Derek’s hair. “Thanks for paying to get my dad down here. My friends, too.” 

“Pack members help others heal,” Derek replies as if he’s repeating a lesson from memory. 

“Then I guess you should have come sooner, Alpha.” 

Derek starts, then leans back, sniffing the air. A look of wonder crosses his face. “I- I thought you wouldn’t want to see me.” 

“Sillywolf.” Stiles takes Derek’s hand and kisses his fingers. “Felt like a hole in me until you got here. Didn’t really realize why until something Scott said earlier.” 

“Oh?” 

“Your loss is my loss. That’s how mates work.” He rubs Derek’s hand against his cheek. “Sure as fuck feels better now that you’re here.” 

“You...you think we’re mates?” 

Derek seems incredulous, yet filled with hope. 

“What, you don’t?” 

Derek lets out a little laugh, leaning over to brush his lips over Stiles’. _“Yes.”_

Stiles only has the lung capacity to kiss him back for a little bit before he has to cough, and then Derek looks stern, concerned, and loving all at once. “No more of that until you’re better.” 

Stiles smiles up at him. “Well then, I guess you better stick by my side so my recovery goes as quickly as possible.” 

“Erica and Boyd are never going to let me live this down.” 

“Pretty sure they would have never let you live down letting me go, ether, hot stuff.” 

Stiles doesn’t miss when Derek laughs, then turns away and flicks a tear out of his eye. 

“Now, Alpha, what do you say about breaking me out of here? I hate hospitals, only slightly less than my dad does.” 

“He’s been staying at the apartment. My apartment, I mean. I, uh, bought him a bed and everything.” 

Stiles grins, patting Derek’s thigh. “Look at you, being an adult and everything.” More quietly, he says, “Thank you.” 

“That being said, he’s been pushing to get you out of here. I think we can convince the doctors to let you out tomorrow if we promise to follow up with your primary care doctor.” 

“Am I supposed to have one of those? I mean, I had one in Beacon Hills but I suppose he’s a little too far to drive to.” 

Derek scrubs over his face, laughing. “You’re a mess.” 

“I’m just a millennial needing an adultier-adult.” He bats his eyes at Derek, cackling when Derek rolls them, but agrees to help him find a doctor. 

“Get ready for a lifetime of this,” Stiles promises, grinning. 

“Ready,” Derek replies, his eyes bright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOD HELP ME I LOVE STILES IN A HOSPITAL BED WHY AM I BROKEN LIKE THIS???
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this! And again, apologies for any major errors, I will hopefully fix them as I see them. 
> 
> This au may end up with an epilogue that's just anal smut, since I didn't get there with this one. We'll see!


	8. Epilogue Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek helps Stiles relax after a nightmare.

_ Fire. _ Stiles can smell the smoke, but he can’t  _ see _ anything, he can’t find his escape route, he can’t- 

“Shhh, shhhh, Stiles, it’s okay,” Derek murmurs tiredly, and Stiles comes awake slowly, cradled in his boyfriend’s arms. 

His heart is pounding, but he’s not altogether surprised to be waking from an anxiety dream again. It’s been a month since the fire, and though the stitches in his arm are long gone, he’s still dealing with internal injuries of the psychological kind, it seems.

Derek’s fingers are sliding through his hair, keeping Stiles’ face tucked neatly against Derek’s chest, where he can hear the steady  _ thump thump thump _ of Derek’s heat. He breathes deeply, hugging Derek more tightly. “Sorry, was I flailing in my sleep again?” he whispers. 

“Nothing to apologize for.” Derek’s voice is gruff, like he’s having his own problem getting over what hap- what  _ almost _ happened to Stiles, so closely a mirror of what had happened to his family. 

The skin of Derek’s chest is warm as Stiles runs his fingers over it, through the curls of chest hair that contour over his pecs. He hears Derek’s heart speed up, not like a Were could hear, but just because he still has his cheek pressed against Derek’s chest. It’s interesting, that little pick up of heart rate as Stiles brushes his finger idly over one of Derek’s nipples. It beads up under his ministrations, and Stiles’ lips curve into a smile. They haven't done this, not since before the fire.   


“You should go back to sleep. You’re still healing.” 

Stiles gives a little shrug, then manages to break free of Derek’s hold so that he can lean up and brush their lips together. Honestly, he'd been expecting Derek to hold back, to be protective. But they'd come to an agreement during his recovery, that as long as Stiles didn't push himself unnecessarily, Derek wouldn't hold Stiles back by being overprotective. Lust curls through Stiles' gut, running his fingers over Derek's chest. He's sure this is a necessary push. “But since we’re awake…” 

Derek’s little intake of breath is the sweetest sound Stiles has ever heard. He runs his hand down Derek’s back, to the waistband of his lounge pajama pants, loving the feel of Derek’s skin against his. Derek groans, dipping into the kiss, holding Stiles somehow more tightly against him. 

They’re both breathing heavily when they break the kiss, their eyes locked. Stiles’ palm squeezes the small of Derek’s back, bringing their hips together, their hard cocks brushing underneath the covers. “I need this, Der, I need-” His statement chokes out when Derek tilts his head and starts devouring his neck, marking him. 

“Tell me what you need, Stiles,” Derek growls in his ear, as Stiles’ heart starts to thump wildly. 

“I need you to show me- I need you to fuck me,” he finishes, breathless, clawing at Derek’s back as Derek nips at his ear. 

At his words, though, Derek pauses, pulling back, his dark eyes, pupils blown, narrowing as they take in Stiles’ face. “Are you sure?” 

Stiles takes a deep breath, letting it in and out, then nods. “I need you to show me I’m not fragile.” The words spill out unbidden, something he hadn’t even known was inside him. And now they’re out there, between the two of them, and Stiles watches Derek absorb them. 

Derek softens, sweeping Stiles up into his arms again, bringing their lips together in a sweet, soft kiss. “You’re so fucking strong, Stiles-” 

“Show me,” Stiles demands again, his fingers sweeping up to fist into Derek’s hair. Derek growls at the small bite of pain, his eyes flashing Alpha red, and Stiles bites down on his lip. He can feel precum making his pants wet and he moans, reaching down to try and work them off. Derek’s hand knocks his away, pushing him back to the bed and ripping both of their pajama pants away with a careful yet extremely hot application of his claws. 

Stiles gets lost in Derek’s kisses - everything is the taste of Derek, the silky feel of his lips on Stiles’, the way Derek’s pressing him into the mattress like he’s never going to let Stiles go. That’s why he shivers in surprise and pleasure when Derek’s warm fingers press his legs apart, thumbing over his hole. 

_ “Yes,” _ Stiles urges, lifting his hips, pushing against Derek’s thumb. He’s not stretched or slick yet, so the motion goes nowhere, except to make them both groan. Still kissing him, Derek reaches across the bed to the end table, rummaging around until he comes up with a small bottle of lube. 

Eyes steady on his, Derek begins to push his lube-slick finger into Stiles, who takes a breath to relax and let him in. Derek’s curled around him, his leg tangled over Stiles, holding him open. Stiles feels utterly vulnerable, looking up at Derek, seeing his love radiate back down to him. 

“You let me in so sweetly,” Derek growls, leaning down to suck a mark on Stiles’ chest. Stiles arches against Derek’s finger, trying to force Derek into the right position to hit his prostate and send him flying. 

_ “More, _ Der. I need more. Come on. I can take it.” 

Derek grins down at him. “There you are. I didn’t know who I was with for a second, you were so silent.” 

“Shut- oh!” Stiles shivers as Derek adds a second finger, scissoring at his rim, still frustratingly missing his prostate. “Fuck, Derek, fuck  _ me.” _

“I don’t know, I think you can hang on a bit longer.” Derek’s fingers twist inside him, so close, so close. “Show me how strong you are. You fuck  _ me.” _

Stiles groans, shifting his feet to get leverage so he can fuck himself down on Derek’s fingers - are there three there now? Four? It’s hard to tell, the way they torture him. 

“That’s it. So gorgeous for me, baby.” Derek leans down, capturing Stiles’ cries of frustration. 

Stiles fingers lock into Derek’s hair. “I swear to god,  _ mate, _ O Alpha mine, if you don’t fucking get in me right now, I’m making this a solo mission.” 

Derek laughs outright, the bastard, biting a mark into Stiles’ neck in retaliation. “I fucking love you,” he mutters, still laughing a bit to himself. Stiles would join in if he wasn’t shaking with sexual frustration. “As if there was ever any doubt about your strength. You’re an Alpha’s mate. By necessity, you’re as strong as I am.” 

If Stiles isn’t mistaken, he flexes his biceps. This time Stiles does laugh, snorting at the display. “Fuck me, then, Der. Get fucking in me already.” 

He doesn’t know where Derek is getting this cool, amused patience from, what well he’s dipping from deep inside himself. All he knows is he needs Derek inside him  _ yesterday, _ desperate for Derek’s cock in a way he’s never been for anyone else before. 

He must have babbled that all aloud, because Derek presses his forehead against Stiles’, breathing, smiling. “I’m doing it this way because I know the second I get inside you I’m going to explode,” he mutters. “I’ve never wanted anything more in my life than to sink into you, mark you from the inside, let every Were that comes within 10 feet of you know exactly who you’re with. Who belongs to you.” 

“Who I belong to, too,” Stiles corrects softly, lifting up his hand to cup Derek’s cheek. “I don’t care if you last a hot second, Der. I need you.” 

Giving Stiles a short nod, Derek leans back, withdrawing his fingers slowly with a final tease at Stiles’ rim. He readjusts, moving between Stiles’ legs and pushing them up, hooking Stiles’ knees over his shoulders. “This okay?” 

The folded positioning makes Stiles feel warmly and comfortably surrounded, just like how he has the last month, sleeping in Derek’s arms. He’s not sure he’ll be able to get a proper night’s rest without Derek wrapped around him anymore, to be honest. Stiles nods, reaching out to grab the sheets for leverage. 

Derek slides into him, just as slowly as he’d stretched him. It’s torturous in the best way possible, feeling himself open up around the hot steel of Derek’s cock. He keeps his eyes steady on Derek’s face, but Derek’s eyes are closed, probably against coming right away. Only when he’s settled on top of Stiles, when Stiles can feel Derek’s balls resting against his ass, that Derek opens his eyes again. They’re glowing Alpha red, nonstop, not even flickering. He can feel the pinpricks Derek’s claws are making on his side as he holds Stiles steady, can see the elongated canines ready to claim his mate. 

“Fuck, that’s hot,” Stiles mutters, pulling him down to kiss him thoroughly, to kiss away any doubts that Stiles might reject Derek’s wolf. 

Derek relaxes into the kiss, pulling out just as slowly as he sunk in, then coming back in again with a short roll of his hips. Stiles groans, the sound drowned between their lips, chasing Derek’s cock, finding that ancient, primal rhythm with him. 

It feels like a blessed eternity, and yet is over too quickly. Derek stiffens first, shouting into Stiles’ neck as he spills inside him, fucking him still, working Stiles’ prostate. Somehow, he has the wherewithal to reach down and stroke Stiles’ cock until Stiles joins him, his orgasm sending pleasure shivering through his nerves, his brain quiet with euphoria. 

Stiles makes a small, needy sound that he’s not going to analyze in the quiet dark when Derek pulls away. Derek quiets him with a kiss, and is back quickly with a warm washcloth, cleaning Stiles up lovingly. It seems like in no time, Derek’s wrapped around him again. 

“Think you can sleep?” 

“Mhmm,” Stiles sighs, moving until Derek is little spoon and pillowing his head on Derek’s back. “Love you.” 

“Love you.” 

Stiles lets the steady  _ thump thump thump _ of Derek’s heartbeat lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to also do Derek's first time bottoming for Stiles, and some more "what happened after", so expect one more chapter of epilogue at some point!


	9. Epilogue Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, When Harry Met Sally, I mean, When Stiles Fucked Derek. :D

Of course Derek can hear Stiles’ Roscoe - a distinctive engine sound if there ever was one - pull into the parking garage of their DC apartment downstairs, even from here. He loses him once Stiles gets out of the car, but he hears the sound of the elevator whirring, and then the doors open and he can hear his mate’s heartbeat in the hallway, safe and sound. 

He hears all that, so really, when he doesn’t clean up the papers around him, it’s his fault. Like maybe Derek’s wolf wanted Stiles to catch him, to catch what Derek had been doing. 

Stiles looks tired, dropping his laptop bag by the door and closing and locking it firmly behind him. So then Derek forgets about the papers, pulling Stiles over by his hand and down into his lap, scenting his neck to make him smell of pack again, and not of Capitol Hill and all the other lobbyists. 

Stiles nuzzles against his stubble, letting out a pleased little hum as he relaxes into Derek’s arms. “And how was your day?” he mumbles, his arms coming to wrap around Derek’s neck. 

“McCall wanted to show us all off, so we spent the morning on the training grounds being put to our paces by a bunch of the top brass.”

Stiles makes a little noise of commiseration. “So, what, you’ve got like, one sore muscle?” he teases, making Derek smile. 

“Something like that. They sent us home early for our trouble, at least.” 

“Think it’ll happen in our lifetime? Wolves in the military...that’s a pretty big, good first step towards Were Equal Rights.” 

Derek slides his hands down the back of Stiles’ dress shirt, then pulls it up out of his slacks so he can feel skin. “I guess we both just keeping working on it any way we can, right?” 

Stiles sighs, laying his head on Derek’s chest so Derek can tuck his chin in Stiles’ hair. It’s one of Derek’s favorite positions, their scents mingling, Stiles safe in his arms. He lets his eyes close, the wolf inside him rumbling with happiness. 

When Stiles stiffens, though, Derek’s jerked back to full alertness, looking for whatever the danger must be, here in their inner sanctum. His threat assessment brings up nothing, but when he looks at Stiles’ face, he reddens, realizing exactly what Stiles saw. 

He watches Stiles reach out for the papers on the coffee table, curious. They’re housing listings, Derek knows, of course, listings with lots of acreage, out in the more rural parts of Virginia and Maryland. 

Stiles looks back at Derek, and Derek can feel his cheeks flush. “I was just- I wasn’t planning on like, surprising you guys with property or anything. Everyone gets a say. It’s- it’d be a commute for all of us, I know, but Erica and Boyd have been talking more seriously about having kids, and it’s- it’s probably just stupid Alpha instincts that I should just shut down but-” 

Stiles holds up his finger to Derek’s lips, silencing him with a wry smile. “This is what I sound like, like, 90 percent of the time, huh?” 

Derek relaxes marginally, letting his lips tip up. “Make that 95 percent.” 

Stiles laughs good-naturedly, then leans forward to brush their lips together. “Where’s this coming from? Did I-” 

Derek shakes his head quickly. “No, no. I’m all in my own head about this, believe me.” 

Stiles’ eyes soften, and he kisses Derek more thoroughly. “Did one of those military humans today say something about your Alpha instincts?” 

“It was...implied by one of the generals that it made sense to put Alphas in squad leader positions because of our extra strength yet protective natures.” 

“And here you are, wondering if suggesting that we all move to the countryside is too protective, huh?” 

Derek lets his forehead rest against Stiles’. “In a nutshell.” 

“You said it yourself, Der, sweetheart, you said you were planning on asking us. Not telling us. Sure, you’re protective. Because you’re a  _ good Alpha.” _

Inside him, Derek’s wolf preens. 

Stiles settles back into Derek’s lap, making himself comfortable, bringing the pile of listings with him. “Tell me about them. Tell me what you’re leaning toward, what you’re planning on proposing to the pack.” 

“You don’t think it’s a terrible idea? The commute-”

“Sure, but we could commute  _ together, _ at least most of the way. Just think, a bunch of extra us time. And I grew up in a place like these. Beacon Hills has this big nature preserve - it’s perfect for Scott’s pack - and I know running the Mall, while you guys get total Captain America-Falcon points, isn’t as good as the  _ real _ great outdoors.” Stiles kisses him on the cheek. “So no, I don’t think it’s a terrible idea.” 

Derek’s preening wolf is practically drooling with happiness now. 

His dick isn’t far behind, either. 

“Oh?” Stiles’ voice is full of a different kind of interest all of a sudden, as he moves his hips to rub them together. 

His mate on his lap, happy with his Alpha, Derek’s mind focuses in on a single, sudden want. He pulls Stiles down for another kiss, hotter this time, filthier, but then he releases Stiles and sits back on the couch. Stiles’ eyebrows quirk in question as he watches Derek slowly, deliberately tilt his head and offer his neck to Stiles in submission. Stiles’ eyes widen, his fingers reaching out, seemingly involuntarily, to trace over Derek’s skin. 

Stiles, though, his never-to-be-underestimated intelligent mate, catches on quickly. He leans in, scraping teeth over where Derek’s pulse is beating wildly. “Such a good, good Alpha deserves the best, don’t you think, sweetheart?” 

Derek shivers, goosebumps rising on his skin. “Stiles-” 

“What do you want, Der? What’s the best? What can I give you?” 

The words feel like they’re being drawn from Derek’s soul. Inside, his wolf is howling, cheering him on, telling him that yes, he’s safe, and it’s okay. “Fuck me, please, Stiles, want you to fuck me-” 

Stiles groans, capturing Derek’s mouth again, kissing him fiercely. He slides off of Derek’s lap, pulling him up. “C’mon, Der. Let’s go someplace more comfortable.” 

Derek can’t find himself fully submissive though, and he lifts Stiles up into his arms, kissing him all the way to the bedroom so that Stiles is panting against him. 

Stiles’ eyes are hot and fierce on his. “Oh, I’m going to fuck you  _ so good,”  _ he promises. He drops down, pushing Derek - Derek letting himself be pushed - back onto the bed before going to their bedside table for the supplies. “Strip,” he tosses out over his shoulder. 

Derek doesn’t need to be told twice, pulling off his shirt, then kicking out of his jeans and boxer briefs while Stiles watches, looking amused. He tosses lube down on the bed, then starts to work on his own buttons, pushing Derek back again when Derek goes to help him. 

“I’m not taking another shirt to the dry cleaners for the buttons to be repaired, mister. It’s embarrassing, the way the lady looks at me, all smiling and wink wink, nudge nudge-ing me.” 

Derek laughs, stretching out on the bed to watch Stiles’ short striptease. He loves his mate’s body - well, he loves his mate’s everything, but his long, lean body, dotted with moles - it had been made, Derek thinks, for his tongue to worship. 

That’s not the plan tonight, though, because Stiles’ eyes are dark and intense on his own as he neatly folds his dress clothes and hangs them over the back of the bedroom chair to be put away later. His cock is hard and red against his stomach as he walks back to Derek, and Derek’s breath catches in his throat. 

“How submissive will your wolf let you be?” Stiles asks, sitting beside Derek and stroking a hand over Derek’s hip. “Want to be on your back or front?” 

It should probably be unsexy, the explicit talk about positioning. Instead, Derek feels loved, warm, his wolf content to let this happen. With a determined nod, he rolls over, presenting his back and ass to Stiles. He looks over his shoulder, and Stiles is beaming down at him, his hand smoothing over the globes of Derek’s ass now. 

“Look good like this, Der. Really good.” He leans in, nipping at the skin on Derek’s hip. “Not going to lie, this has been fueling my fantasies for awhile now. I love getting fucked by you, but this ass…” He sighs, happily, his thumb pressing lightly against Derek’s hole. “You’ve never even played with this, right?” 

Derek shakes his head. “Only you. You’ll be my only one.” 

Stiles makes a little sound Derek can’t interpret, but then he’s draped over his side, his mouth on Derek’s, his happy scent coming off him in waves. “Love you, Der.” 

“I love you,” Derek whispers back. “Now fuck me.” 

Stiles laughs. “Still an Alpha, even when you want to be all sweet and submissive. Power bottom, check.” 

He moves into a straddle over Derek’s back, his hard cock smearing precum on Derek’s skin as he spreads lotion over his fingers and starts to massage Derek. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Let me make you happy.” 

“‘M already happy,” Derek mumbles, as Stiles’ clever fingers work into the knots in his back. 

“Shhhhh,” Stiles whispers, and Derek obeys. His eyes close, and he relaxes under Stiles’ ministrations. 

It’s why, when he feels the warm - but still colder than lotion - lube drip against his hole, he doesn’t tense up. Stiles has scooted down, his hand pressing against the small of Derek’s back as the tip of his finger begins to work at Derek’s rim. “That’s it. Open right up for me. So sweet.” 

Derek feels Stiles’ teeth nip into his ass cheek, definitely not the first time that’s ever happened, even if the rest of this is new. He breathes, slowly and deliberately, trying not to stiffen for Stiles’ finger. 

It’s a strange sensation, when Stiles works the tip in, stretching, stretching, stretching. To take Stiles in himself is nothing new - there’s almost nothing he loves better than waking Stiles with a Saturday morning blowjob - but the feeling of lost control, the feeling of  _ no _ control, it’s already taking Derek’s breath away, and Stiles only has  _ one _ finger in. 

No, make that two, Derek notes clinically, even as his body shakes over the sensation of Stiles’ fingers scissoring inside him. They brush over what must be his prostate, and Derek groans, clutching at the sheets. 

“I’ve got you now,” Stiles whispers, sounding amused as he strokes over Derek’s prostate again. 

Derek can’t help but fuck back on Stiles’ finger, chasing the sensation. “Give me more,” he begs, hardly recognizing his voice. 

“You’ll get more when I say you get more, Der.” Stiles’ voice is stern, and it does all sorts of pleasurably twisty things to Derek’s insides, so he doesn’t call Stiles’ bluff. 

Doesn’t  _ want _ to call Stiles’ bluff when Stiles’ fingers feel so fucking good inside him. 

As Stiles methodically stretches him up to take three fingers, Derek doesn’t even realize his claws have popped, and are digging into the flesh of his closely fisted palms, until he sees blood on the sheets. “Shit-” 

“I’ve got you,” Stiles murmurs, calm as ever. Sadly, his fingers leave Derek’s hole, making Derek feel sad and empty, and his weight lifts off the bed. He comes back quickly with some heavy duty towels they’d bought just for this type of thing, something for Derek to hold onto and tear into during sex so he’s not tearing apart his own skin - or the mattress, they’d learned after the first time they’d had to purchase a new one. 

The cuts on Derek’s palms have already healed by the time Stiles wraps the towels around them. “Have at it, Der. Show me how you fucking feel,” Stiles whispers, hot and aggressive in his ear. Without warning, all three fingers thrust inside him again, and Derek howls into the sheets, his claws gripping at the towels wildly. 

He’s not sure how long Stiles tortures him, gliding over his prostate and skating away again just to make Derek’s hips chase. All he knows is that he moans when Stiles’ fingers leave him, and then the blunt head of Stiles’ cock is pressed at his entrance. 

“Keep breathing for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you. You’re so good, Der. Such a good Alpha.” 

The praise makes Derek melt into the mattress again, letting Stiles slowly slip inside him, stretching him out even further. 

It’s alien, the feeling of being so full, but not unpleasant, not at all, especially combined with the soft weight of Stiles on his back. He’s surrounded by Stiles, by his scent, by his strength. There’s no place else he’d rather be. “Fuck me, baby, please,” he pleads, unable to stand the tension any longer. 

Stiles laughs, and the tension breaks as he slowly withdraws, then fucks into Derek again. “God, you feel so fucking good. So tight. This ass-” One of Stiles’ hands squeezing over his ass cheek, hard enough to bruise, though his werewolf healing doesn’t let the mark stay long. Derek groans, tipping his hips back. 

Stiles’ pace is slow and steady, none of the frantic energy that he normally gives off. It’s like now that he has this position of power, he’s going to milk it for every single drop. 

And Derek takes it, his wolf howling with happiness every time Stiles slides home and fills him completely. It’s a primal rhythm between mates, one as old as time, and Derek feels as if he’s completing some ancient imperative to bind Stiles to him, bind them as mates forever, in a way they hadn’t yet reached before. 

When Stiles spills inside him, he’ll truly belong to Stiles in every way. 

He reaches out of the towels, carefully withdrawing his claws and seeking out Stiles’ hand. Stiles stills. “You okay, Derek, sweetie?” 

Derek turns his head, and Stiles leans down so they’re face to face. “I love you.” 

Stiles looks confused. “I love you, too, babe.”

Derek fights through the pleasurable sex haze that’s fogged over his brain. “If we- I didn’t think, but I can feel it, can’t you?” 

“Feel what, Der?” 

“If we do this, we’ll be bonded,” Derek manages, Stiles’ cock still in him driving him to distraction. 

Stiles continues to hold, though, no longer thrusting. “Like...werewolf married?” 

Derek nods. “We don’t have to- you can pull out-”

“Derek,” Stiles says sharply, getting Derek’s hazy attention back on him. “Do you want to?” 

Derek’s silent for a moment, then he nods again. “Yeah. Yes. Do you?” 

Stiles’ hand slides down to his hip, and he withdraws slowly. Derek moans, already feeling an aching emptiness, but then Stiles thrusts back in, hard, his teeth pressing into Derek’s neck. “Fuck yes.” 

Relief floods Derek’s system, echoing with the euphoria of his impending orgasm. He tightens his hands in the towels again as Stiles starts to pound into him possessively, fucking into him, making them one, building their bond. He grips Derek’s hips, holding him steady as he uses his hole. 

It crests for Derek, his cock spurting against the sheet below him, making a sticky mess that he can’t give any fucks about. He groans Stiles’ name, melting into the bed, squeezing his ass down around Stiles’ cock and dragging him into orgasm too. Stiles’ cum is hot inside him.

They come down together, a panting, sweaty heap of limbs. Stiles manages to roll them away from the mess, spooning Derek from behind and kissing everywhere he can reach - Derek’s neck, his cheek, below his ear, everywhere. 

“So...that happened,” Stiles says eventually, his breath blowing against Derek’s sweaty skin. 

“Yes, it did.” 

Stiles threads their fingers together. “A good happening, right?” 

_ “About fucking time,” _ Derek hears through the wall. Erica’s voice. He smiles and turns to look into Stiles’ eyes. 

“A really good happening, yeah.” Relaxing, he draws Stiles into a kiss. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unless I do a kinktober fic for these guys, this is probably it for them! Thank you so much for all of the wonderful comments, the huge amount of kudos, and the general awesomeness in the fandom!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm back with another Sterek AU. Like the last one, I'm going to attempt to update at least once a week. This is actually my fic for AU August so I might try to get it done in August, but we'll just see how it goes!
> 
> Comments and kudos are always lovely and appreciated. <3


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